When you arrived in New York in the late 1970s,

The city was almost shattered.

The Bronx aflame, Brooklyn in tatters.

The rush-hour bridges choked with cars.

Even in full sun, I cabbed around the park.

But you saw incipience in that grittiness,

Here, at last: boys, concupiscence, authenticity.

Greenwich and the Studio, pouring out light,

Which you, so sweetly, cupped across the city.

And then you were gone, like every-other man.

Still, your graffiti on my skin. The warmth of your hands.