Goldin

A poem about the photographer Nan Goldin and New York City in modern settings.

I saw Nan Goldin with flaming
red hair and a camera hanging
off her shoulder on a bench outside
Central Park.
The thick aroma of cigarettes
burns my throat.
How’s the high- fashion photography
so Vivenne Westwood,
The drag queen shows drawing the
line between masculine and feminine.
I painted the vibrancy
you used years later and called it
your own unique style.
Punk rock clubs and man
I thought punk music was dead.
Johnny Ramone died just last year.
I sit here in New York City and
I never did know how to
say "Hi."