By the time the train rolls into Penn Station, I am reluctant to step off, like riding the A train is something I could do for days. (And maybe it is.) The New York afternoon is mild, a kind welcome as I drag my heavy bags west across the avenues, even as my sunburn fades before I've even reached the 28th floor. She writes, come by and see the place any time before noon, you measure the days and compare them to your current leaps, realize it would be the longest you'd have stayed in one place since you left the little shoebox on sixth street. I'm better for having been here.
Spring appears in me in time with the crocuses and snowdrops, makes me want to stretch my legs and set off in step with the whirlwinds of the season. I find myself wondering how the little station wagon out west is doing, wondering how far my saved airline miles would carry me, before I've even unpacked my bag.
Perhaps it was naive to think
we could ever change into different people.
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