Your 24-houred openness pulses
artificial light like an oasis
in the New York night.
Boston has many beautiful things:
rowing clubs, turkeys strolling the esplanade
and artisanal donuts,
but I miss you, New York bodega,
your consistent comfort
of coffee, regular, in paper cups.
Remember that time my bougie boyfriend came to Harlem?
We went to a big bodega up by 145th.
He said excitedly,
like an anthropologist in the throes of discovery,
“They even use their own money up here!”
I said, “Nigga, those are food stamps. How you livin’?”
He broke up with me and moved to Oregon
to design sneakers.
Bodega, mecca of American cheese sandwiches,
you taste the same all these boyfriends later.
Can I get some Raw pre-rolls,
a strawberry condom
and some evaporated milk?