wants to write unemployed
wants to learn krav maga
to tend city gardens to stave off the apocalypse
to master archery in case of the apocalypse
must walk alphabet city with
one contact in
or both contacts in
and different lights,
crisp amber on faded crumbly Red
Brick Autumn, cool blue Winter
obscures until snow’s white pillows
illuminate with reflected glints the
shops down A, the pines in Tompkins,
the cathedrals, more than one
loft converted, two or three
in the Christian operation, bordering the
park, so many churches she forgot one was there despite
its massive hulking glory — doors open only
Sundays to the riffraff of the village.
Doors open only Sundays
when she isn’t there.
Summer, a golden glow for the masses on line
(crowding an oblivious mass) for Ralph’s
italian ices, until a thunderstorm rolls
them over, sends them screaming (for ice cream)
and sprinting down the street
beneath my window. Beat girl can afford to live on this street.
Then Spring, the mixed bag, the upset expectations, the
dreams of warmth and growth and sun that come true both too early and too late, the Mays of frozen fingers ungloved, of arms chilled in light cardigans, the memories of bonny February days, climate change don’t call it global warming, days, that don’t do anything to warm us as in the six weeks later shivering frostbite days of mid-April.
I won’t say anything more about Winter.
April 12, 2023
(first draft handwritten sometime in 2022, maybe May)
