Next time
2024Next time you spit upon the streets of the West Village
because the patterns around my neck
imply a form of savagery,
spit at me clearly
Allow yourself the satisfaction
of seeing your rotten droplets singe my eyebrows
and allow yourself the Liberty
to divisively exist as yourself
It is your right to trod down these sidewalks
Your right to step on any crack you see
(God bless your mother)
This is a melting pot filled with your spittle,
in which you are free to paddle as you please
I have been aware of these certain rights
since Mrs. Butterfield outlined them in crayon
and I have embraced them flagrantly
after months of mirror rehearsals
Next time you spit, be so brash as to spit into my face
Proudly emphasize your place in New York—
Barefaced, holler, “This is my town!
Move there why don’t ya if you like it so much!”
Be so kind and allow me to hate you
with a Manichaean passion
just by laying my eyes upon you
I have expressed myself ever so clearly
despite the splutter
Next time please feel comfortable enough
to do the same