The snow begins to melt by midday. The sun peeks out between passing clouds, I see the hours disappear under my keyboard, but no day is wasted that saw the pages amass. She writes to say she's landed in New Jersey and everything is already horrible. It takes a certain sort of armor to live here, you both know this, and sometimes vacation distorts our vision to think there's an easier life out there. The super arrives in a huff, shoveling the sidewalk long after the ticket's been issued. Your friend with the rent-controlled apartment on the edges of Chinatown paints the walls. Thirty-five years of New York in that walk-up, it takes
a certain sort of armor.
Avenue B is silent on a cold Friday night in the pandemic.
Hold on little rosebud,
Spring is coming, yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment