There are so many of us in New York, you know.
We're the ones in bed early, with mud masks on our face
and dozens of unused candles around the room.
Hypnotized, we dive into potato chip bags
and keep eating until Ted Koppel's finished talking about
whatever he's talking about.
Birthdays aren't a big deal.
We try not to make a fuss because every year
we get closer to 30,
closer to not having, never having
the husband and baby
we swore we'd have by now.
We organize our closets,
keep a journal
and read - a lot.
We have rented every goddamn movie at Blockbuster.
We walk by Baby Gap
and get a pain in our chest.
We start looking at our best friends and think,
hey, why not
- at least I know what she likes in bed.
We know how to make really good chili
but it always tastes funny when we eat it alone.
We sneeze and there is no one to bless us.
The hardest part is the music,
the songs that pour out of elevators and taxis,
with voices that crawl between our ears and say
This one's about you, babe.
This one's all about you.