Fright Wig

You come home to linger

like a tugboat in the mist in New York City.

I know if I cry in your arms

there are more arms waiting,

your arms waiting like desperation;

a red fright wig in the corner.

You come home to linger 

like a band of smoke in the sun

in a dirty grocery store in New York City,

where the lawns have no bones,

there are trains running empty,

children in dry fountains.

You come home to linger

like a boy with a small snail,

like the moon with a wave licking it,

like yourself, out there in the harbor,

in the mist, in New York City.