tenement façades, kosher bakeries, and empty lots— oh, and give me a dollar or I’m voting for Trump! Wednesday mornings on the Lower East Side, don’t you ever lose that smile, or the superpowers of a nine-year-old writing poetry for the first time, taking the rotten out of New York City, saving the world one word at a time, one Twinkie at a time, finding the quirks that fill in the spaces between the letters in your name, between your breaths. I wish you knew how little it matters where in the world Carmen Sandiego is and how much nature relies on your dimples to claim its perfection, how heaven relies on us for its very existence, made only of flickers— two lovers slowly dancing under a circus tent, Roosevelt Island at dusk in late March, waking up to the umami of life breathing deeply, your feet pushing against mine