You spend the evening in church, preached to by the East Village’s own reverend of the Earth, reverend of the old Lower East Side, reverend of reminding you why you came to this city and it has nothing to do with God. She foots the bill, but not until you’ve spent two hours panicking about how you’ll be able to pay your half. The choir reaches crescendo and you wonder if you’re falling into the depths. Sometimes it’s hard to know if it’s illness or just poverty.
Either way, you’re crying on the F train again.
The reason you’re dying is because you’re not spending your precious moments building stories into the sunset. This is not a secret. The reason you’re wasting away is because you’re spending your life neither here nor there, unwilling to commit to mediocrity, undaring to leap into the wide unknown. This is the trial.
You wonder
what the odds are
you’ll survive January.
You’d place a bet
if you had any pennies left
to place.
No comments:
Post a Comment