Mother swept Brother and I to NYC; Midwesterners to Midtown.

A Cerberus-eared copy of Percy Jackson our demigod guide book lowdown.

Wander the Met, seek your Greek and Roman muses.

Sail the harbor, broken sand dollar the river gods’ conflict diffuses.

Subway halted, part the mist with your eyes, show no surprise

at whom is in disguise.  In NYC we don’t stare at celebrities.

Or ancient deities.  

Mad Square Park: Shake Shack under Edison light tug a sip through your straw, upward eyes do draw to Olympus slash Empire State,

there is a debate if we are worthy of an audience or a view that would simply reinstate

a fear of heights.   

Amend the guide book, add to the next version, more diversions.

Medusa is in garment district now, evicted after too many statues left in the hall.  The Whitney can’t take them all under pretense of modern art.

Pandora’s Amazon box is lost in the city.  No tracking available.  Oh doorman, what a pity if you attempt to deliver it yourself.

The Fates’ side gig is Uber or Lyft or both depending on the night or the fright they want to give the yellow cabs.

Our week concludes, still wanting more. Why is EWR a bore?  We wing it back home, waving an aerial farewell to living myths of the city that never

sleeps.