Quarantined

-


I miss the

refuge

of my local café

where my writer fingers tap

like cotton club hoofers

stomping to the savoy

As natives zombie in,

toddlers claim their

God-given right to

a fresh-baked croissant, 

and I get to disappear 

Ralph Ellison style.


I miss 

The gymnastic landing

Of a passionate kiss

The binding clause of attraction

A body gone limp

as a cat

defeated by pleasure

floating in a puddle of the afternoon sun


I miss

The close proximity of Renoir

The baton induced entrance of an overture

The invocations of the sermons at the Vanguard


I miss the casual wander behind

the ghost trail of fruit-scented vapes

The rapture of traffic

That cabs that wail like 

Calloway

Fueled by the octane power of the hi de ho.


I miss

The buskers

The card sharks

The lunatics

The West Side Story rumble of the subway

The cashmere scarfs

And pictures of John Lennon

On sale along aboard the hustling real estate of 

Manhattan bridge tables


And I miss  

The million and one times

that I have fallen in love 

with a passing

stranger 

the pas de deux

of synchronicity 

who feels like 

The One

who suddenly

disappears

Kidnapped by the rabble

And sacrificed to the city

Which always left me

Heart trampled

and left

to wonder

once again

Where it all went.

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