It had been such a good day. Another morning walk which brought us leaning into the afternoons. Street after street revealing this city and how it lives, and already I am thinking, when do I come back? Because there will never be enough time to be here.
The sun was about to set and I was at the lake again, sitting on one of the benches, a bit immune now to the noise of traffic. My knees were shaking, and I was exhausted to the bone. I had no idea finding the post office was going to be one of the more challenging adventures. “You still send mail?” N. asked me in surprise the other day. Yes I do, and I did, and there I was staring at the dark green water, munching on sweet treats. A group of old men were fishing a few feet away from me. The red bridge remains uncrossed. The wind in my hair again. I was thinking, I will never be able to return to this exact moment. Here it is, and I don’t have anything else to do but be quiet.
The evening was quite different. A cab driver showed me how they do deceit here. I wonder if it’s the map in my hand that gave me away, or the incandescent shine of romance on my face as I gave my heart to another city that was not my home. Later, over a cup of coffee, unwilling to go back just yet, I finally found my laughter. I thought, I’ll be okay.
Yeah, I’ll be okay.
“Morning is such a welcome time. It doesn’t demand”
Morning is such a welcome time. It doesn’t demand
much from the pocket—Some coffee, a cigarette,
and the day starts, full of optimism & clarity of hope
While the Muse holds her head, and the crazy Elementals
hold down their wrath
lightly under the earth’s surface.
Some vague attention
of wind stirs the golden oats
and Ita Siamese drags her breakfast rabbit over
the roof three
times into the house and escorted out
the door. While Aram Saroyan & W.S. Merwin
debate the paucity of their fathers’ feelings
in New York Times reviews,
coming down the pathway still
are my startled guests as this morning proceeds normally