TAKE ME TO NEW YORK. SHAKE ME FROM THIS WORK

You warm my eyes like a palm on the window of a washing machine at 60,
and I know that’s a broken record, dentist on repeat,
please listen to me, you need to brush your teeth,
but I ain’t seen a stare like that
since you bathed in the dishwater naked
and left the next day.
What’s one to do when his Prime membership’s over
and there are no air miles left?
What’s one to do when the freezer’s also broken
and he’s under house arrest?
Plan.

The next time I turn up to New York I’ll be wearing a suit,
a slim man
thin George Harrison
knocking at your door
in the bask of your
West Village brownstone glow,
auburn hair, red bricked and
home.