too cold to follow the rhythm
following the rhythm tonight is one for a long run, but mercy on me, no, it is too cold in Brooklyn. At the office today, all the ladies were comparing layers of stockings and cable knit tights and leg warmers and skirts and slips and boots and scarves. I mean, the tart brigade ladies not the ladies in high end fully lined wool suits.
The Broadway bagel-man in the metal cart announced in puffs of white breath—my fingers! my fingers! bending them stiffly like slammed in a door sore, his thick fingers in thin white latex gloves. they barely…work. He had my coffee in the bag before my dollars were out from under my frozen bag flap.
At the coffee shop on the way home, the night manager wrapped his grey hoodie tighter around his scrawny self. He smiled real big and asked about my weekend. I had brunch twice with friends. That’s a really good weekend, right? So I smiled real big. He said, Yeah—that’s a great weekend. Brunch is great. We should have brunch every day. Mandatory brunch.
Yes—brunch and siesta. It would be blissful. It will be heavenly. It is Italy.
