August in the City

I wrote this poem last year on a park bench in Washington Square Park. I carried an umbrella, walking down Fifth Avenue, waiting for the rain to fall. I held one of Patti Smith’s first books at the Strand. I admired Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs at the Guggenheim. I told a man from Africa about ToniContinue reading “August in the City”

New York

I’m writing this post at JFK, waiting to board a flight to Boston. I’m heartbroken to leave this city. Coming here, I didn’t expect to have an ache in my chest as I leave. This city, the people, the art, the culture, the literature, all of it is magic. Yes, it can be smelly. Yes,Continue reading “New York”