West Harlem, Tuesday night and something comforting about the dirty streets, about the ridiculous blinking lights on Broadway a hundred streets up only advertising top level delis. Something in the way people in the neighborhood make you feel more assimilated than a hundred west village propers ever seem to. You are reminded this city will have room for you even in poverty, even in despair. It's a large island: there is space. She speaks of the country you left, of a job you know so well and blank stares you haven't missed.
There's a reason you left. There's a reason you longed for these crooked cobblestones when you had everything left to lose.
It's just you and me, now, you say into the dark tunnel, as the 1 train careens down Manhattan. You wish you felt sorry.
You feel complete, instead.
No comments:
Post a Comment