street performers come to mind.
and that movie we saw,
the one about us.
Yeah, you know the one, with
your hands
and my hands
playing hot potato
in and out of
jazz bop
art malls
where your ears and my eyes
danced in the subway
fumbled coins into sax cases,
for good measure,
and
rambled homeward
electrified we
found ourselves
(metaphorically speaking)
in a day old sandwich
in washington square
where
your lips and my teeth
took the
“stay safe”
advice with a brown paper bag and a straw to go
and
quickly
lost face
like needles in
stacks of books and
ramen.

Amen,
to waking up,
to that cup of coffee,
and cigarettes,
and
holding my breath,
during cab rides to Pen Station.

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