Chinese Take Away

When heroin 
Was an easy buy 
On the Lower East Side 
We’d cop 
On a corner 
Or a bodega 
Or even a hole in the wall 
Of some 
Piss stained
Wasted torn building. 

There was an abundance of those. 

We called it Downtown Beirut. 

Ironically 
There was a bar 
Called just that 
In the East Village. 

After we scored 
We’d go back 
To your narrow railroad apartment 
And get high. 

Several hours later 
We’d head down 
To Chinatown 
To anonymous eateries. 

Some a few steps up. 
Some a few steps down. 

Small like living rooms. 

We’d order 
Take-out 
Randomly 
Off of a menu 
That we couldn’t understand 
And take it further 
Downtown 
To the foundation 
Of the Brooklyn Bridge 
And sit on top 
Of one of the burned out frames 
Of stolen cars 
Deposited there 
And watch the lights of neighboring Brooklyn 
And lonely passing boats 
On the East River
As heavy traffic passed overhead.

New York City 
As a whole 
Was chaos back then. 

Anything went 
And did 

As we pulled 
Unknown objects 
Out of cardboard containers 
And ate them 
Without hesitation. 

Only stopping to 
Hold something up 
For the other to see 
Commenting 

“What the fuck is this?” 

Before sticking the chopsticks 
In our mouths and chewing 
Something tender 
Or otherwise. 

Sometimes there were bones.

There were 
Many 
Skeletons 
Of dead cars 
Below 
The embankment 
From the street 
To the river. 

I always wondered 
How they got there. 

Some impossibly far 
From the concrete retaining wall. 

They couldn't have been driven there.

It appeared to me 
That no one 
Even cared that they were there. 

Unnoticed or forgotten. 

But they made 
A perfect picnic table 
At four in the morning. 

One time 
We saw people 
Partying 
High atop 
Of the Manhattan side 
Anchorage. 

Their figures 
Distant 
Defined shadows moving against the night. 

I could hear their radio
Playing hip hop.

I took another bite 
Chewing thoughtfully. 

I looked at you 
And said 
With certain clarity 

“Jesus. I could never do that.”