New York is not America.

                (Unless something unimaginable happens

                and it declares it wants to be.)

It is a city where anyone can belong,

and Lord knows we’re not that inviting.

And yet, New York is not a city.

Cities begin and cities end, but

squiggly lines on paper cannot control New York.

China is New York, along with Italy.

In print, New York finds its way to every major city.

A New Yorker in Missouri

a New Yorker will always be.

It’s in the way she walks,

though heels don’t click in dust.

It’s in the way she talks,

never questioning that you’ll hear her.

It’s in the way she shakes your hand,

strong yet supple, enough to undo any man.

A New Yorker in New Zealand,

an Empress will always be.

The hurriedness,

sense of entitlement to the nearest taxi,

habit of crediting clothes she won’t ever wear,

these are qualities unsmotherable by clean air.

New York is the fashionista of opportunity,

 the editor of dreams, the cutting edge’s cameraman,

direction’s director, its empire a fierce state of mind.