It was a chilly evening in Manhattan. The calendar said it was the second night of spring, but it felt like the beginning of winter all over again. He was sitting on the bench outside the main library, with his chin on his chest. Sleep protected him. People walked by; someone glanced at him, others didn’t. A French tourist looked at the man and almost laughed. Someone observing him gave him a dirty look, silent movie style. A while later, a group of Italians went past the man. One of them turned back, and took a white bag out of his knapsack. He walked to the bench and placed the bag next to the man.
Archive for March, 2014
Places. Places here, places there. I carry my belongings, my books and my dear things from here to there and from there to here. I see rooms, one bedroom or studio places. I stay there a week, maybe two, sometimes a month. Then I move on. I don’t know where. I am tired.
I see the places where we were. I see them and I remember you. You were the important one. You made them matter. Without my darling, there are no places.
I live. I live out of my pocket. Everything I need for now, for today, is there. The key to nowhere, the subway card, one or 2 dollars–it is all inside the pocket of my dark blue jacket. I don’t know for how long. I care. I care too much.