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June 21, 2001
The sky swells barely off the wet pavement,
comforting old brownstones. Holding
them still. A soft rain carried
on a thousand fingertips taps gently against her bedroom window.
Cool droplets streak down the glass, pulling the lights of Delancey
along with them. Rivulets of reds
and yellows and greens and whites meander before the blurred nightscape, like
a Pollock superimposed on a Monet. A
finger carefully follows the contour of a cheek.
The window, raised a bit, welcomes a sweet breeze that inflates the
transparent curtains and mellows our warm embrace.
Outside, a man moves with a newspaper over his head to a doorway marked
with bleary numbers, dodging a cab whose driver is thankfully too in touch
with the beat of the Big Heart to ruin the soft jazz of three a.m. lower east
side with an unkind honk. The
slick tires roll lazily onward, spraying clear rooster tails and fluttering a
sound that rises and blends with the acoustic guitar being strummed slowly on
the stereo up inside our dark sleepy hideaway.
Memories of sleeping bags zipped to the chin and glowing embers burning
down yield to those of fireflies and crickets, before settling in on
stargazing and Fred Astaire. The
conclusion of She walks in Beauty if Byron had had another page.
“Hold me until I fall asleep.”
And I do. Rising alone
with the quiet gray dawn, I leave her like the mood.
Perfect.
Broadway
Jim Sosnicky
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