Line my eyes with kohl. Zip me into a sailor suit. I shall walk with my feet on the pavement and rub my back along the walls of each sky scraper. My tipped toe finger stretch cannot even begin to scrape! There is the smell of popcorn in the air. And heat which meats me like mince.
Vendors slide their sausages my way, but so politely! You are black and dark and oh so very Italian Jewish Turkish Brooklyn skinned. I could lick your sweaty chin.
I can see Jack leaning out of a window, throwing down pillow case of clothes and books. And Neil or Dean catching it in his grubby hands. Such spans.
I smoke a cigarette on steps on Bleeker. I eavesdrop twangs. And when a leaf falls into my hair I keep it carefully in my bag.
I fall in love with the women in the Guggenheim and chant to myself, “Guggenheim, Guggenheim, why are your circle filled floors so fine?” And think myself immeasurably clever. The sounding line tries but no ruler can even begin to fathom the strange perfect width depth and pitch of that shell interior.
I hover across the road from so many songs. Smell the air and hum along. At night the freeway mumbles as if it does not know the words, and I stretch under a single sheet, to let the air reach my feet.
The heat grasps its stomach and laughs (unkindly) and with gusto in the morning. I must hold my own body and walk onwards to the promise of something frozen, chilled or cool. Perhaps a visit to the zoo? I shake my head with peanut breath and we walk through the greeny dream of Central Park.
The park is folded up, tucked away, nipped and frocked by loving paths. It rolls so, I suspect we are already in our boat, rowing through the trees.
I lie on my back and try trapeze shapes with my legs in the air. We are children, we don’t care. We have discovered terrapins by the dozen and peered through our faces in the water green with awe. And now I am lying on the ground.
Don’t get me wrong, I got lost. I couldn’t get the hang of blocks. But my mind grinned when resting on those words, blocks, the L, side walk and sub way. My mouth is smug to say them. And retracing your steps is not so bad when you’re stepping on Lexington.
Over brunch which is so obviously eggs, a man with blood on his shirt asks me for a match. We sit outside, table, railing, road. The sun is here, on the table, making colours of our ham and spinach.
And every morning I walk past Sparacino’s bakery where they sell French and Italian and Sicilian breads and comic booklets. How is that so? I am a booklet made of dough. Rising and falling in eddies of flour which stay white on my nose tip and little lips. My pages get folded down, leafed through, my edges are browsed. Warmed too.
I would happily be tipped back in the road, held between you and the ground, kissed by gravity, subway vent and time simultaneously. I don’t mind you turning me over.
So let me stay.
