Poems from New York, #7 

New York 

Is a mug of hot cocoa balanced precariously on my hip flexor, 

deep psoas, not yet sore from class 

with Bryan Strimpel, as I listen to George Strait on Pandora and I read Patti Smith talk about New York, over 30 years ago. 
She dropped different names (John Coltrane John Lennon) and took her jelly doughnuts with coffee. 
But perhaps in some ways, it is still the same city. 

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