Not at all New York

Where sophistication knows to die of thirst
before drinking the Hudson
and how to hold a knife like a fork
to get that meat to pray

While singing the kind of softness
that sounds stoic
but resounds more like
a sidewalk covered in trash

While using one's nose 
and knowing one's no's 
a sort of apostrophe apostasy
wherein there are beautiful churches

You'll never go inside
at least not until yesterday
the Sunday of Sundays
when your pews were amused

Without the tension
of a crowed solitude
and the idea of a soul
fell into that hurried lap.