Obv

The torrential downpour started the second we closed the cab door. Five minutes later and there wouldn't have been a car in sight. We ignored our luck and ran to the deli for beer, the night too young to be over.

And thus another night ended eventually with that same old walk home from the LES. Houston street so quiet on a school night, and the temperature on Broadway said 70; how warm it had become since last I stumbled west on that street. A man lay on a subway grate, supposedly drying out his socks, I didn't offer to help. I passed a pink balloon in a puddle and was so tempted to take it home. My roommate rescued an abandoned plush puppy from the sidewalk trash the other day; our hearts bleed unending.

Today, as we trudged around the East Village, I felt entirely at home. Here are my people, here is my New York scent in the air. It occurred to me that the West Village is too clean for me, too good. I am undeserving. In the cluttered mess of East Village Alphabet Avenues, my scuffed shoes and unevenly rolled cigarettes burrow their soft edges and rest.

How blessed am I, that I found the place where my soul may rest, where my battered body can be rescued, after all?