At night, the district neons.
Syncopated bass pounces from buildings,
claiming foreigners. Korean girls call you
into basement bars rimmed with American
whiskey triple the price, you pay
for the company you keep, women plastered
in blue and white, thin as beer labels,
peeled and wet, papering the floor. Blink
and you’ll lose her for another
brown-haired man with thick arms
and a NY baseball cap, young and away
from home, eager for something
Korean. The streets lined with Nigerian
women and Turkish men hustling toys
and jewelry on cardboard showrooms,
blasting dance music from boomboxes,
trying their best to blend
into the surrounding airwaves.
Everything borders on dream. Step
on the subway and you’re waking,
walking back to morning calm.