I’ve never been to New York City and heard the
bustle of the restless. Haven’t had a set up stand
hot dog with sauerkraut, peppers and onions all
smothered in mustard that oozes in between fingers.

I’ve never stood at the top of the Empire State feeling the
winds rip me from steady ground. Haven’t tried to spit on
walker bys from heights untraceable to their furious tantrums
and screams cursing the innocent pigeons.

I’ve never experienced the pains of rush hour, sitting
endlessly in traffic trying to grasp a drifting mind from
near bored destruction. Slamming a palm to the wheel
until the Chevy emblem burns red on my hand.

I’ve smelt aromatic pine needles a million times though.
Hiked peaks covered by redundant golden leaves tainted by
the grasp of fall. Seen plenty of sunsets fall beyond the towering Appalachians, the same mountains that hide         New York City.