If I had more time, this would never have gotten done.
On Friday morning in Washington Square Park, the benches are slowly drying. It happens on the West side of the park, once wet, then damp, now dry.
It is hard to know who waits for what these days, and no one wants to admit unknowing. Let me be the first.
Who doesn’t love public correction adores tea without sugar. Yes, I am indulgent.
Warmed by the arches near the same woman I sat by two months ago in a little cafe on Lafayette. I could never forget, how beautiful, head wrapped in black, eyes lined in kohl, baby fat as a pumpkin beside her.
New York is a Craig’s Lister’s dream. 8 million missed connections and I only mean this morning. If I had more time, I would still be wearing these shoes.
The sun makes slits out of wonder, the sun slowly dries the benches.