Friday traffic ate my precious time,
thirty minutes of stewing in the driver’s
seat until I look up, see clouds.
I am a woman aloud,
choosing this moment of quiet,
preserving peace
what little remains
as aged politicians who refuse
to admit their time is done
carry on. And on. And on.
Last night, we lay on our backs,
breath coming in gasps
as if surprised to be alive
in bodies accumulating
time’s insults and woe.
I whisper a Buddhist prayer for us:
One breath less.
After seven years, age 14-21,
under the watchful eyes of aunties —
advice on losing weight, or gaining it,
good posture, blackhead remedies —
New York City’s anonymity is a tonic.
Whistles, catcalls from a Con Ed crew
near Lexington; hiss of crosstown bus,
police sirens, car doors slamming,
church bells tolling, conversations
at the corner deli, street laughter.
Monday, Wednesday, Thursday,
classes at Hunter College, get lost
in the let-it-all-hang-out vibe.
Tuesday, Friday at the Metropolitan,
Guggenheim, Whitney – taking notes.
At my corner window, Madison at 85th,
I sit on the radiator, blowing smoke rings,
Baudelaire’s Les Fleur du Mal open
on my lap. Want to date shy classmate,
Jules, who loaned me his dog-eared copy.
Werner will soon pick me up, kiss me
on both cheeks, half-bow to Mother
that leaves her blushing. What next?
Click his Teutonic heels together?
Kiss her hand?
Her instincts about ad-man Harry –
not for you — were on the money.
Couldn’t pick him out of a line-up now.
