Nyc

what is this place that speaks to my soul?

a city, like any other city. i turn an apple over between my hands and scan the signs around me. neighborhood produce store. portobello mushrooms. tonight we're making a roast.

i trace my fingertips over the tangled veins of the subway lines. the dingy map, tired and reliable. in my pocket i have fifty cents and a metro card. there is no place i'd rather be.

yes, good morning queens. good morning angry drivers and strange smells. the faces around me, smiles beaten out of them maybe, or noses turned up, but i beam anyway. to be young, dumb, impulsive. in love.