new york
first there’s the couple crawling across the white tablecloth just to deliver
the punchline; full throated laughter before the joke’s even finished.
does the pavement remember all the dinners it’s caught? next, there’s flood of people leaking out their front doors every morning, just trying to find each other. or the bouquet of women at the farmer’s market bowing to the tomatoes—or the model pinching closed a bag filled with nothing but tissues and Vaseline. which is more beautiful? doesn’t the subway deserve more than all that spilled beer and spit? after all, it’s cradled so many bodies as they’ve cried, planned and slept, and didn’t the doors open that one time the man jammed his hand in when he thought he recognized his mother? all i know is there’s something about how the storefronts on 5th Ave leave their lights on long after closing time, the quiet nighttime street flanked by hundreds of mannequins, still lit.
