we’re back
there they are again. the lids of coffee cups lining the sidewalks, three-day-old grounds and a kiss of lipstick on the rim. haven’t you missed the sound of a flip-flop crushing them flat as it slaps across the street to some urgent destination? how about the mouths? does it feel like something revolutionary to see them shouting laughing spitting whistling crying all over again? aren’t teeth a relief? somehow the hot garbage roasting in the cruel sun feels like a bonfire worth gathering around; someone asks for the soundtrack—a tired cab driver leaning on his horn—to be turned up louder. the subways have their stench back and when they flood, there are actually people to surf the waves. wouldn’t you wait for the F forever just to feel the warmth of the old woman swearing to your right?
