while I am recording the blues album
with Matt English during the days
in a basement studio in Brooklyn,
she and I can celebrate the new job
on nights in the city with champagne
toasts and long suffering silences.
we will take a walk,
bump shoulders, pretend,
all with the timid city lurking
like a stalker, watching and wondering
what we will do next, and if we will make it,
kinda like a soap opera creep,
which the city has seen before.
I wonder if we will hold hands
on the Rumbler, going somewhere
adventurous on another night,
continuing a charade of pseudo-friendship,
past benches and grammatically incorrect
signs that signal a laugh or five.
attempts at dancing, twirling
will be turned down at first,
but accepted with a smile, hopefully,
and the proverbial dance will continue,
near Kip's Bay, where I will leave her be,
near the Trader Joe's, only to walk alone,
back uptown or wherever the hell
I will sleep that evening before finding my way.