24 West 83rd
Street, Apt. 2R
"large balcony, garden views, tons of southern light"
It’s 2:00 on a Saturday
and dishes are clanking at the table downstairs.
Like the baby being bounced through her tears
Lunch will not be put down.
Those at 22 have slipped into their native tongues with the help
of lingering beers.
They are, I imagine, discussing why no one gets lost anymore.
Across the way 82nd street is sweeping her deck
of fallen petals, and pollen & Spring.
Perhaps tonight she’ll share her secret garden with friends.
Or perhaps she'll pour the wine and step outside for an evening with New York,
just the two of them.
Somewhere in the courtyard between the bookends of
brownstones
a piano is being played, a recorder
practiced and a guitar embraced.
Together they are my lullaby;
For I am taking a queue from the orange cat spotted in the sun:
Curling myself into a nap
with the window open.
