Chelsea Days

Orphan puppy is not my dog, anymore. 17 years and living with her aunt; the 15th floor on 15th street is a sunny way to spend one's days. Perhaps she remembers. The apartment is full of sea shells, how odd. I am unfazed. We walk down to Morton Street, arm in arm, we wait while she walks the other dog (he hasn't forgiven me), I wish I could be overwhelmed but I find the Zagat in the bookshelf where it always is. Everything is how it always is. The stairway smells faintly of laundry detergent. Pigeons at the window. The new roommate lives in my room; it looks the same, but it is not.

The cab follows familiar streets. Always that impatient standstill on Houston. On the Lower East Side, a hundred new bars have opened. You tell her about things; it's as though not a day had passed. You revel in the luxury of normalcy. It is too cold to walk the bridge home, anyways. Red wine tastes the same. A full moon travels across the New York City night.

Who are you? Why did you come here, and what do you hope to find?

The questions amass. The answers grow fonder by their absence.