Lady, I Don’t Want Your Purse
I didn't know it was possible for the sky to allow such a thin ray meant for my head as a natural alarm clock. I really need to move this bed out of the way. Too late for that. I am already up. Another day full of its own adventures. No choice but to see what is in front of me. Sheets, drawers, desk, chair - all of that shit. My eyes observe, but my mind allows. Why can’t I ever remember the exact moment I fall asleep? It’s as if my consciousness suspends until I am able to look once again at what is in front of me and what is there are the same things I see before. At one moment, reflective and deliberate, and at another, fleeting and unremarkable.The flow of each morning moves like the drops of the faucet to my toothbrush to the less translucent ones from the carton that hit my cereal.
Summertime has come to a close in the city, and the crisp days of Autumn envelop all from W.89th Street to every neighborhood of a thirteen mile island that is always on its grind. Who really calls it autumn these days? I really like that word. It reminds me of my childhood and a girl I once knew who shared that name. We both had unique names, so it was natural to find solace in that. She was what Autumn would be if it had a heartbeat; light brown hair with matching eyes that would channel the leaves falling from the Oaks in front of Will Davis Elementary School.
I can’t help but grasp the last rays of warmth before exchanging glances with the hellish winds of the winter coming. Why is weather always a way to start a day? Is it because it’s the first thing we notice when we look outside our windows or step outside our door, or is it because it is the first thing to hit us and make us feel so unlike ourselves if we don’t prepare? I would like to think its the constant connection that we all share with one another in an attempt to delve deeper into what another has inside - or not if the conditions are too extreme.
Enough about that. The air thins with each opportune breath bundling up in my three-layer armor in forty-degree weather. Monday mornings are always suspended in their own universe of dread and misfortune far removed from the suspected freedom of the weekend. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I am doing up here. Looking at my overstuffed backpack accelerates this million dollar question. I know there is a prize and the inevitable struggle to get to it. So, I can see what I really want- the remnants of a simpler, warmer place without the Thalia and Melpomene routine playing out on every individual theatre around me. I asked for this additional complexity – for the pace. I asked for this grind. So, I play on this field of concrete, perpetual fog, and the faint aroma of urine wafting through my nostrils like Febreeze.
My foot lifts just about half an inch for each step. Just enough to give myself enough rhythm to keep up with the masses, but maintain my gait – my nature. I can't help but pay extra attention to my...