It’s your fault, New York.
You grabbed me by the heart and shook
out all the doubts, all the fears,

all the hurts and disappointments. You ran
your fingers around my brain, pulled out all
the murky stuff and replaced it with the brightness

of yellow taxis streaking down the avenues,
the open-faced grins of locals walking dogs,
the clinking glasses and laughter of after-work

drinks, children running through spring kissed
grass in Central Park. You, New York, you are the reason
I forgot about National Poetry Month and didn’t write

a single poem for nine days because
you were the poem. I was the poem. Every single
minute of every day in your arms was the poem.