Ode.

Wind down the Hudson river at twilight, I open a book but spend an hour staring out the window, consider it a win. Arrive at Grand Central in a slight hum, people return to the world but not excessively. Instead of the 6 train, I walk down Lexington Avenue: a reminder of commutes past, reconnect with the city, wink at the Empire State building and the corner building on 28th and Lex where I first called this city home. The scent of the suburbs haunts me, their lush quiet cleanliness, their restricting parkways and hidden lives. When I arrive at my door, the super is playing Whitney Houston at full volume in the street, asks me to dance. Manhattan winks back. 

A lightning storm rolls in. The little apartment over the deli lies quiet, but kind. 

That's plenty.