it's not the same. not enough people, not enough soul blaring from the subway.
there's still the man on the corner, hands out for the dollar, bottle of smirnoff tucked in coat pocket...
used to be a bag lady, books and leotards, capezios and tights, my copy of the free Village Voice. pass counters of chocolate in bloomingdale's, groups of young fresh-faced girls, cameras in hand...
today plays like piano blues, minor chords accompany the sun peeking from behind big grey clouds. there's a little bit of fear stuffed inside the goodies in the bag, there's a little melancholy and no eye contact...
i'm holding onto the familiar myself, perhaps it's a striped starred flag, what's the harm in that? something to connect us besides the bus ride, something to console us in our anonymity...
cityfolk have their own way. it's about the hustle, the moving on. unfazed at the ducks hanging in the window, we order the greasy egg roll. we wear the maxi leather coats and dodge the peta stares. we wear the army jackets, never knowing the man who sold it to secondhand...
it's a little bit different. and i'm still a little scared...but the time is coming when that familiar skyline will be within my view...