In furtive rhythms of uneasy breezes,
an abandoned shiny bag once filled with
fried pork rinds now flutters, drags in little
seizures down the schisms of a sidewalk.
Shuttered, locked up tight as any vault,
New York’s gestalt has stuttered to a halt.
I’ve bought and liked that snack of crispy
salted pig fat. Now I’m queasy at the thought.
I dream they virally attack: they kill. Not like
New York would care. It wouldn’t. But now
it wouldn’t care because it couldn’t. I sit
for days convinced the city’s not just still.
It’s no longer there.