Irreverence—for JM

I dreamt I was almost
a woman, but when I woke
I made love with a spinster
who whistled anthems
in the dark, then I dreamt
again of New York, of
frantic cab rides and
mysterious women
in raincoats, of winds
lifting dried leaves
from gutters to curbs
in symphonic swirls,
and of a vault of a room
in the West Side Y
where an aspiring
baritone’s scales and
drunks beat on the door
each night like
African drums, or
a headache, I tell you,
or heart.