Erasure: This History

as i stand by him, i settle into him, wake yet again to the renewal

another years membership of waking beside your friendship

across the country, still freezing

in my stubborn resistance, in this city's north

i hide in this tiny studio, turn the calendar page

and count my blessings because it's February,

i survive yet another half of season

first half was the ending of my most transformative summer

and when i leave the city next month, it will still be cold

it will still be winter, i will still remember

that 7 months prior i embarked on a journey,

it began in Chicago, upon my arrival

and continues, the only difference is-

i  won't be here, and certainly i will go

with a bitterer taste, in the frost, of your Chicago,

of a quieter and lonelier bon voyage

than the prior departure from the city of New York

i'd rather believe in the noise and the company to be had

if the streets on the east coast are overcrowded,

then warmth must be something i can expect to find,

if i could actually take comfort in the close proximity forcing me

to share air with the thousands of people walking at once

among strangers to the heat box, i will share in the big apple

the experience of several others, at once

and i will suffer tons as i whisper beneath my breathe

cursing, old women and young men alike had a language

at the very least, in the windy city, we were in it

freezing our asses off and simultaneously swearing

overhearing one another without shame for the commonality

must be with respects to the words that we would use freely

how cold and how warm were we to walk among bare sidewalks

and white asphalt, colder air, briskly walking as several brave

the constant breeze that numbed my cheeks and brought out my tough,

only rough winters would excuse this behavior

and like i said, i like to be here and when i leave

it will still be cold, it will still be winter

when i'm gone

the streets will still freeze

and i will hope only two happenings for me

in the experience of new york city

there is still walking and there is always drinking

if i am cursing at the same time that the old lady

standing beside me on the train platform, in the cold

together waiting, freezing, believing that soon the train will be coming

and, at least i'm not alone,

if i go to the bar and i'm encouraged to guess the card deck number and suit

hopeful that it will be one that was imprinted inside the PBR bottle cap

and grant me such beer on the house, then my bartender will remind me

new york is cold too, like chicago and fun comes like swearing old grandmothers

walking faster than they ever did last summer, and cursing the days that

confine us in the dressings of coats and things and what is only a colder winter.