I used to know what it felt like.
Before the week in New York
Spent dodging bombs at the train station,
And keeping butterflies
From the thread of my sweater.
The rungs of my overalls were
Better that year.
And the legs still fell below
My ankles.

We didn’t bring the Christmas lights,
I remember.
Mary’s tree already stood.
So we watched.
Undressing it each night
Whilst the tiny bulbs
Glowed heartlessly
Compared to the Television’s light.

All the while Feeling nothing.
And on Christmas morning
Our house was cold
But New York
Caught fire.
And from my window,
Between the shutters,
An unimpressive skyline
Severed by buildings
Far taller than the sun.

This was the city of brick
Without wood to burn
And the hallways smelt
Of someone else’s cooking.

I used to know what it felt like.
Before the week spent
Inside the Apple of A different Saint.