I sit and savor pistachio/blueberry.
hiding from the rain, forgetting about instinct.
an invisible organ plays hymnals just for me.
unsure if this is prayer, because no one taught me how.
but I am hoping Hashem hears my inner monologue.
I don't ask for anything, just say thanks for everything.
lick the spoon and consider the afternoon.
a hobo sleeping in another pew starts snoring.
I hope she is dreaming of her version of Heaven.
while the Epicureans retreat to their gardens.
my Canterbury tales continue to trail forward.
I am a proxy poet to the world I live in.
protagonists don't have to be "likeable."
I don't have cash or coins.
so I sneak Starbucks giftcard near her satchel/pillow.
outside, the Union Square spring air.
mixes songs of nostalgia and future hope.
the Rumbler reminds me to look down.
and I see I have spilled dreams all my Ramones shirt.