I sip my fifty cent cream soda and take a bite of my beef patti with cocoa bread.

Walk out of the Jamaican bakery and stroll down the gum stained streets of N.Y.

I move to the beat of my own rhythm and slowly pass the skyscrapers and dirty women

because I love the smell of N.Y.

The city where sleeping is not an option but an insult to its bright lights and noise everlasting.

I watch, habitually, the jagged sea of concrete, and different shades of yellow

releasing the clamor of honks and beeps, picking up a new stranger each time

who will promise a better story than that of the one before them.

I stop suddenly past the fork in the road somewhere between 27th and 11th ave

And wonder why my cushioned footstool never kept my feet well rested before my long walk,

because Jill Scott’s never seemed so nice.

I decide not to dwell on things now gone.

Instead I enjoy the aromatic treasures of generic green plants and greasy hot

dogs on top aluminum.

I continue to walk on the streets that offer everything but promise nothing

Singing the tune that Judy made famous…

“There’s no place like home.”