New York in April

The man sitting in his coat at the newspaper stand handing a paper and a smile to the business man exchanging a laugh with his change after the metal food cart where the skinny man is selling coffee, croissants, those egg bagel sandwiches

The corner wine chain that delivers with the high energy at 8pm, the scruffy gay boys with their scooters buying rose coolers and the street guys asking, what do you want a Bacardi nip? Turning on their boombox radio with the Latin music on blast out the open front doors and the owner of the store walking out the door with his arms raised like eyyy! and they’re scramming and laughing as they dance down the sidewalk in a trio of joy with the nip for the cold and the music. I put latin pop on the rest of the night, want to feel like I’m dancing too

light the candles, pull the window open with the night rushing in and the warmth running out –

think about how I start to know people by their laughs not their voices on the conference calls; how there’s that one person whose voice I really like but I can’t say why

and I swear one day I’ll stop writing what I think people want to hear – that there was ease

when the city gets almost warm for a day, the way people walk and fling arms around shoulders and saunter down the sidewalk is relief, rushing – rivers, flowers, shoulders, ankles, everything that should move – the men outside the wine store shimmy and dance again so we’re forgetting we ever huddled, ever hid our ankles

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