On you go


and let your mind listen,

to the sounds of New York City in the snow.

The trucks,

and the men who drive them,

expect nothing from you.

Solo taxis through the slush on Bethune,

making their way to the river,

their small beacon sounds,

float into my kitchen.

The stones,

and the bricks,

and the wood,

no longer speaking hierarchy.

They don’t know.

No one does.

Listen to the streets.

To the snow.

Your stories,

superimposed on it all,

were always a lie.

but you can’t have it back,

so on you go…