This is not Whitman’s city of orgies,

flesh and funky like the poet declared.

This is a courtyard without grass or trees.

At night it’s the only space that we’ve dared

venture into. My mouth glued to your hard

nipples. Your tongue tangy from the cold-salt

of my skin. Kissing each finger, the scarred

flesh of my arms, each shiny pink-cobalt

slice. The world falls for hard men and soft boys;

since I’m neither I have no purpose here …

except to please you. Down the fire escape.

Against the wall. Haunted with city noise;

as in, your cunt quenched without shame or fear.

My ghost fingers. My cadaverous shape.

][][

Note:

The good, gray poet, Walt Whitman, once referred to Manhattan as, “the city of orgies,” which still makes me chortle whenever it comes up in conversation.