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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Reaching for the Stars” Down in the Dirt, v201 (11/22) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Paths Less Traveled the Down in the Dirt September-December 2022 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

The New York Tourist

John Grey

I’m not bored and the city’s not deadly.
More like a pile of dirty dishes,
a knotty pine-box of a place.
A stranger casts me a glance
just so I can peer right back at him
and he can come out with, “What you lookin’ at?”
He’s roughly digesting his chunk of daily bread,
chewing angrily away while swatting away flies
and kicking at the pigeons.
It’s his way of enduring himself.
Okay, so someone smashes the window of a liquor store,
a thieving raccoon masquerading as a man
and his hair crackles as he runs smooth like water through the crowds,
clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels in each hand.
But he’s only briefly the center of my attention.
A woman’s thighs ooze slowly out from under her red skirt,
almost showing the whole shebang.
Yes the city globe keeps spinning,
timing my eyes to every new angle, in this gritty gray twilight.
Here’s another woman, in the latest fashions this time,
all Gucci and mink, a look so contemporary
that it’s barely begun.
Then some guy comes up to me, slithering like a tomato-worm,
with a look that says “spare change” even before it’s spoken.
A kid runs off to a cop’s “Move On”
though he doesn’t seem grateful that he wasn’t arrested.
My first encounter with New York’s finest:
muscles bulge like swollen veins in his sleeves.
The abs of the law, puddle glints, car window sparks,
all Big Apple sites, plus a homeless lady
pushing a shopping cart loaded up with bags of all descriptions,
a living piece of the dimness and the insanity,
and a streak of frustrated violence that holds the attention.
Traffic slipslops across lanes. The sky is no more than a shadow.
A man yells, “Timex watches, ten bucks for two.”
Money twists in my han

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