SLAM!

Interlude, 72nd Street & Central Park West

Make-believe grownups in this borrowed world of
marble-floored foyers, canvas awnings and
gilded entranceways, doormen, hands folded across
brass-buttoned burgundy; steam like phantom cobras
coils hissing over subway grates and we wind through
spidery scaffolding, framework for a life-sized
house of cards, Day-Glo flyers fluttering like
pinned moths on plywood backdrops, allusion of

fragility, moments broken amidst
brick and stone: scarlet wake of taillights on
midnight macadam, stutter of air-conditioners,
condensed water like spare urban teardrops
falling on bare shoulders; laughter,
cold and bright, crystallizing into
summertime icicles before falling to

shatter on stained concrete. Through open windows,
drumbeat residue of tribal music, coriander
nip of takeout curry, bleat of domestic discord above
bullet-hole storefronts where cardboard bins
brim with star fruit and bruised mangoes. Our breaths
matched, human metronomes in sync, fingers

tangle like shadows beneath flickering
streetlamps, hot air, sticky like vinyl in
August twines around my ankles, sweat trails in
hollows of skin, spent words and exhalations of
strangers deep in my pores. We pause at the corner to eat
steam-wilted burgers from foil containers, melting
chocolate ice cream from plastic spoons and the
beat of this moment, our interlude,
imprints on us like the sprawl of graffiti on subway walls.




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If you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance!