New York relics pace the empty 

corners, haunted by bodegas past. I look 

down on their numbers dwindling, 

watch them spit in gutters running 

with sullied rain, yellowed with street urine. 

From the highest window, I peer 

at their beer bellies shaking with Brooklyn

intonation, inserting w between c and o. 

In the Seat of the Empire relics rest—

a folding chair their throne of creaking plastic,

its legs embedded in cracks between 

squares of concrete where the ghost

of another city dwells. From the top floor, 

I mourn their waning reign with half 

a heart. Born to the same streets, I know 

nothing of what was—only glimpses 

from my window, only whispers 

of antiquated speech losing 

their breath—drowning in gutter rain. 

Looking down on residuum, I occupy the Seat 

of a New Empire. I don’t pace corners 

but round them—ex-deli turned coffee 

shop my stomping ground. My stomach 

is flat and my speech precise—consonants

ungarbled and spit swallowed with the sin 

of forgetting.