Take the city.
Suddenly New York has ripped down its lights and its magic and the tourists left are the sad ones, the poor ones, the ones who speak English anyway, who are spending their sinking American dollars.
Christmas trees are broken, pine greens splintering into the garbage amongst the broken take-out containers and rotting food.
This is when New York becomes especially devoid of that happy holiday commercialism. Everything is 35% off, including our souls. We’d given our gifts and lit our candles, and then the New Year snuck upon us in our Aulde Lang Stupor.
Kiss me, it’s another year. Hold me, we’re still the same. And so on and so on. Curl up with me on New Years Day, stretch your coked up toes in your rolled up covers, cowering, shedding last year’s skins.