Marcy avenue BQE music and there's a soft breeze across your sunburned shoulders. The roof was beautiful, all mid-summer scorch and still dry enough to breathe--didn't you try to cut the humidity with a knife yesterday? We had a picnic in Harlem today, the Mexican parade making it hard to cross Central Park West, but the grass was newborn lush under your bare feet. It's Sunday, so the M doesn't, run, but you are in no hurry.
If you think it will be great, you should go, he says, and wasn't that exactly what you were thinking? Your arguments of sanity don't make much of a dent in your sense of adventure. You promise yourself to consider it, despite the tickle in your veins. Summer in New York is just beginning, you sing louder now even when people can hear you.
And I'm free.
(Free falling.)
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