Passing

The sun shines down on anxious New Yorkers, promises another few moments of bliss, promises a snooze button on the darkness or whatever dangers lurk. We sit on a pedestrian St. Marks drinking sangria and making jokes, we sit on an unsecured east village rooftop pondering the nation we chose, we sit in a tenement shoebox wondering what art is left to make, I think there is magic to be found after so much drought, that could not have been seen in the riches. He speaks in riddles but all you see are the dimples in his cheeks, all you will remember are a few breathless softnesses in a rickety stairwell, the last two years have taken so much from us that we must welcome the gifts when they are given with open arms, with the absence of defense. They say the weather is about to turn, they say gather ye rosebuds while ye may, but you have lived through a hell, you have walked through many a fire, if anything were to come out of all this pain, 

perhaps it will be the knowledge
that you did, too.