between blades of grass
sky-scraper sheets of waxy green
ants march in line
clearing house
cleaning up
don't they know
that they should unionize?

you roll over onto your back
breathe deep
and keep up with
the current economic crisis
while i count ants
and encourage them
to read marx & trotsky
you hit me with the new york times
and bring me back to
rising gas prices
and interest rates

an hour went by
we fell asleep
beneath the big old tree
in central park
you dreamed of type-writer sounds
and i dreamed of
martin luther king
on the balcony of
the lorraine motel
where i had just been
with my father
our dreams together:
type-writer gunshots
revolutions
stamped on paper
rolling through the presses
stopping by the editor's desk
for coffee and a bite of cake
trying to solve
crossword puzzles
(who gives a fuck about crossword puzzles, really?)
impressive on the train
she was
and the way she left the
subway
the time that i saw
natalie portman
on the a-train
(why the fuck would natalie portman ride the a-train? was she slumming it on her way up-town?)
maybe she just missed
being beneath the city
being tuned to sleep
by the smell of the rails
and the plastic seats
carefully curved
holding commuters
like orphaned children
(you tell me to shut up about natalie portman,
that it wasn't her,
that even if it was-)
maybe i just missed
getting her number
pretending that i didn't know
who she was
rinsing all recognition from my eyes
with my flannel sleeves
and impressing her
with my knowledge of
abandoned subterranean spaces

here is a secret:
i love you
because i know that
you don't really give a fuck
about frictional unemployment or gross domestic product or slip/strike economies
(there is no such thing, you made that up)
or anything except
sleeping
on
the
fire escape-

he was there fighting for workers' rights
i tell the ants
horrified by their indifference
towards dr. king
towards you
and towards me-

later in the day,
i say:
i never really gave a fuck about natalie portman anyway,
and you:
she'd break too easily
and she'd never pull you through
the window on the 14th floor
with two pillows
and a torn quilt-

the economics of
midnight
play
above 45th street
where the supply is
the history of new york city
and the demand
is fucking history for just a moment-

your back is bruised
wrought iron bruised
by your love of
making love
on the
fire escape.