Avenue B remains, your flowers unmoved by your absence. Tompkins Square Park rests in the rain, remnants of a hurricane washing the streets. Everything is dirty, but you are happy. That is what New York is. He writes regrets across the time zones, but it is too late now, you are already somewhere else. That is what New York is.
There's a moment in return, when your edges are still soft from the country, when you find your brows furrow, your jaw tighten, when you retrieve the rush of subway stairs, a transition that occurs before you've even reached your front door. They have Sunday dinner waiting when you arrive, and you forget you were ever away.
Open the windows, let in fall. You have made all the space in the world
to take in whatever is ready to come.
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