Poem: This

This

You remember.
The city. The journey.
The blur of towns and landscapes
and the Hudson river, muddy with barges.

The scurry of Penn Station. Time Square.
42nd street. The Tick Tock diner –
a circus, complete with costumes
24 hours a day.

The strangers. Every where,
No one still. Everyone moving here to there
and to there again.
Women in dresses and impractical heels.
Artists and bums dressed similarly,
but the artists have more sculpted hair.
Suits. Lots of suits.

You remember
the energy. The power of it.
All these lives hustling. Comfortable
with the pressing together,
A crowd on every corner, feet tapping,
thoroughbreds at the gate, anxious
for the race.

You remember the stares.
A man like you, slow, still deliberate,
a watcher with no destination, A man like you
stands out in his flannel and camera
held like an appendage. An oddity
feeling at home.

You love it there. Not as a constant.
As an infusion. New blood.
It is easy to grow stale in the wilderness
you have chosen for home.
It will lull you. The slow pace
is peaceful and painful both, you need

this.

The age of quarantine nears its end.
Not yet. Not now, but soon.
Remembering is a blessing and a curse.
You need more. The touch of strangers hurrying.
Museums. New art. Alleyways. Empty Cathedrals.
Construction. Street carts with strange foods
and knock offs. Skins of all the colors you miss.
Tourists and hard core locals, Jordans and stilletos,
the improper and formal,
buzzing neon past its prime.
You remember, and you survive in that memory.
But survival is not the goal. It is not enough.
You need to be filled, now and again, with energy.

With this.

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