With Belafonte

If you and I were the only two people
left alive in New York City,

your tits finally available to everyone,
no curtains, no Venetian blinds necessary,

the Statue has become
a washing machine for birds,

little clean bastards all over the place,
the zoo animals are camellias

(only you could think of that metaphor),
the lips of the rain can no longer hang on,

we look for even the hint of fruit,
some Amazon scapegoat, I gloat, you boat.

Walk all that way in slippers?
We persevere on the tenth story

of the Empire State Building,
toss chairs out the windows

to feel more alive, the crashing noise
has been taken from us,

yet, whatever is rend asunder
finds a way to become whole.