On the Unsuccessful Night

A poem about a long walk I took once.

"Living in New York is not the same
as living near New York,"
says a hipster girl I almost had.
While my friends were in the bathroom,
she backed away, shuddered,
upon hearing the words "New Jersey."
And thrust back into a not particularly cold night,
then insomnia.
I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge alone
at 4:04 AM,
saw people kicking over garbage cans
to better inspect the contents
en route to that hated place,
swimming underneath
where you probably live now.
And I don't mind being trapped;
whether by lonely metal framework
or miles of simple nothings,
but please, god, let it be somewhere else.