At 22 my bank account hit 25.
Going home to Mom and Dad,
the end of my life, loomed.
If I left New York I’d lose:
my boyfriend, with his genius
music, math savvy, drug habit,
my two rooms on 14th St.
and 8th Ave, dance classes
with the world’s best,
all hope, ART!
So, I did the thing
I would never do-
and went
to Radio City to get a job.
After I’d signed on the line,
giggled on the 7th Ave. subway,
crossed August-smelly streets
wrestled open the door
with the lousy lock,
kissed my cat, stripped to undies,
stuck my hot face in front of the noisy fan,
blasted Dylan, Joplin, Nyro,
Paul finally came by. I jumped,
wrapped my legs
around his skinny waist.
“185 a week plus rehearsal pay!
We’re rich!
Stay, I can stay!"
and he carried me right to bed.