Changes

The empty corner with the darkened restaurant alters to fit its surroundings. One morning when I wake, a drug sale goes down like a farce in the little nook by the back entrance, the buyer scattering precious goods in the wind. Another day, a young man washes his needle in a bottle of Poland Spring before sinking it into his brown skin. Passersby might worry, if there were any. I dream about the young pandhandler with the curly hair, that I take him home, that he turns out to be a dancer when encouraged. Normally he spends the day yelling profanities.

My dreams are getting weirder.

Last night, I walked home from Brooklyn at twilight, as we anxiously parroted admonishing fairytales about being out past dark. I want you to get home before nightfall. When I reached the middle of the Manhattan Bridge, the island sparkled and glittered in the last of the orange glow, again, again a gift and it never fails to remind me. The bridge was empty, I had the moment all to myself, and I think that is the greatest treasure in all of this. Sweeping out of it at Canal street, I walked up the middle of the Bowery for blocks as the city grew dark, and ominous. I know I should feel uneasy, know I should worry about safety and the missing streetlights, but this city has seen me home on so many late night returns, has ushered me safely to my front doors, has tucked me in and helped me to sleep even when I was thousands of miles away, this city has spent 14 years giving me reason to trust it, so when the lights go down and the people trickle out I do not fear.

I walk across the Manhattan Bridge singing.

I stand in the middle of the Bowery, and smile.