I do remember when you weren't as kind
to me as you are now, city of mine.
Cold child-devouring mother, down the line
you will regret the bright young things who find
you harsh right now. Either they'll run away
taking bright words that would have lit you well
or stay, but write you as a grimy hell.
You know it matters what smart writers say
so cut them all a break, as you did me.
Let them meet lovers in delightful bars
protect them from third rails and speeding cars
I warn you as your friend, quite candidly,
that only being kind when writers age
is much too late – we've written down our rage.