Before 2020
Union Square.
Atop a city building,
A silver cross. I look up,
I look away.
It doesn't matter which train you take in the morning,
The Q or the B—you won't get a seat.
On the rare occasion I do, I'm too uncomfortable
To close my eyes and sleep.
The city is bustling. There are a lot of natives here.
In the digital age, on the subway at least,
You'll still find the strangers who grew up on these streets
Talking to one another.
Eavesdropping on their respective life stories
Makes the daily commute less tedious.
2023-2024
A place seldom visited becomes
A familiar acquaintance,
One you see so often
You memorize her features
But never come to know her better.
SoHo was
A prayer closet, of sorts
For the year of waiting.
At the end of a narrow cobblestone street, a corner
Of an old church leans into view
Crowned in ancient brick and mortar.
Matcha order on repeat; baristas know me
By name. They smile wide
When they look up from their clockwork task
And see its me who just walked in. I love them.
I may be the only native still here.
The B train rolls in as I
Roll up my sleeves
And step inside.
Lean my head on the window, rest my legs on the chair
Across from me, and sleep.
The city, somehow,
Feels like an eternal night
Eternally glistening
Above, within, the East River
Bordered by alluring apartments on one end,
Endless vacant, fluorescent offices on the other.
This constant moving, unending machine echoes
Something foreign, familiar:
Daughter of Abraham,
How can you find your song
in this strange land?
Brownstones and storefronts
Repeat, city streets
Sometimes a sunset,
If you can see it through all the towers.
Waited for nothing, it seems,
But I did love some lonely strangers
In the idle in-between.
