If You Are the Ghost of New York City

When in doubt,
song will untie the knots
in your chest
will remind your lungs

How to breathe.

An entire day whiles away from under your feet. You do not mind. You have run out of New York hustle, have run out of will to keep your calendar full. You sit in the bath tub until the water goes cold instead, stare at a wall and try to feel the blood return to your body. On the screen, a man moves to New Mexico. You think, I lived there once. Now you cannot see the future anymore, and you don't know where you'll live in it. 

There should be poetry to come out of this darkness, should be stories to billow out of the pain in your fingertips, but all you want is silence. 

All you want is someone else to do
the breathing
for you.