Leave Those Kids Alone

We leave the fire escape alone, these days. Hours of prosecco spent remembering New York in the eighties, supposedly before the posers arrived, but I suspect they were always there. We romanticize another era and forget that this is how it always was. Wanting so desperately to own a piece of the city, the times, the Way. Born and bred in the Chelsea projects isn't much different from just arriving, but appearances matter, and Madonna ends the discussion, appropriately.

Onto swank SoHo bar. Onto seedy Alphabet City karaoke joint. Onto cramped Belgian Fries hole-in-the-wall. I walk home along St. Mark's because it feels safe; it's one cigarette after another. Goodnight, sweetheart, says the stranger, and while I should be angry, all I feel is comforted. Greenwich village sleeps when I reach it; at least the tourists are all gone. We reclaim the city at four a.m. when only the garbage trucks are alive.

A bird sings in Washington Square park; we pretend dawn is near, we will spring into being, even though the wind is chilly. The filter in my last cigarette falls out; I smoke it without, well aware that this is a sign I should head for my pillow.

How simple it seems. And yet how many words are lost in the making. A new fan in my window, ushering in fresh air, fresh dreams. New York, honey, we ain't barely getting started. I am still just moving in, after all.