Poems on Returning to New York After Some Years Away

The Publish Workplace

Standing within the limitless line at my neighborhood put up workplace,

I observe the filthy flooring,

And the sweet wrappers, and nip bottles, and wads of used Kleenex,

And the weary clerks,

And the racks in opposition to the wall, meant to carry packing bins and manila envelopes,

However empty, at all times empty,

Aside from one padded envelope with hearts on it, for Valentine’s Day—

Solely it’s August.

I had excessive hopes! Certainly the post-office scenario had improved within the years I used to be away,

As a result of, ,

How may it worsen?

This specific put up workplace shouldn’t be the one in my previous neighborhood,

However the aesthetic—mid-century state psychological hospital—is similar.

New York is ever-changing, you may as nicely get used to it, everybody says.

And a few modifications are good!

Like, I resent being grateful to Andrew Cuomo for something,

However I’m in awe of Moynihan Practice Corridor, its hovering interiors flooded with buttery mild—

A wonderland, particularly after passing by way of

The hellscape of Penn Station.

And the Second Avenue subway, so ethereal and glossy I’m momentarily, dizzily, disoriented.

Have I landed in some super-tidy land—perhaps Japan, or Finland?

However that’s not the case on the put up workplace, nonetheless and perpetually foul and forlorn.

Right here’s a thought:

Let me take a look at the put up workplace as a soothing reminder that some issues by no means change.

Some issues actually are everlasting.

Right here, in the identical previous cesspool I left behind,

I’m dwelling once more.

Bikes

The bikes took over town streets throughout COVID,

When New Yorkers found that every thing might be delivered,

Together with a cup of espresso from Starbucks, for some purpose.

And other people noticed the supply guys, who no less than had some excuse

For heedless and high-speed bike using—their livelihood trusted it!—

And determined to mimic them.

I didn’t dwell in New York then.

What a shock to return, and to search out myself

Virtually murdered on daily basis, within the bike free-for-all,

The place purple lights and one-way streets and bike lanes are as nothing—

Only a joke to be laughed at, ha ha ha!

And by bikes, I imply the entire array:

The bikes,

The turbocharged bikes,

The motorized scooters,

The issues that appear like mopeds solely smaller,

And another sorts of locomotive issues I don’t even know the names for.

Standing on the curb, I whip my head back and forth,

Checking for oncoming bikes—

Left, proper, left, proper—

I appear like I’m watching a ping-pong event.

I step into the road gingerly, as if I’m dipping a toe into the chilly ocean,

However one way or the other considered one of them seems anyway, grazing me—

Motherfucker!

And now, currently, the bikes are on the sidewalk, too,

In order that simply stepping out the door of my constructing is like

Attempting to merge onto the L.A. freeway, on foot.

And in the event you’ve managed to make it into the sidewalk site visitors,

You will need to not pause, except you need the bikes to mow you down,

For we pedestrians are nothing however human slalom poles to them—

They decelerate for nobody!

Not the dads with their youngsters on the way in which to day care,

Not the very previous individuals clutching their canes or their caregivers,

Praying that they didn’t survive the Despair,

The battle, most cancers, solely to finish their days

Struck down by a scooter.

Pot

Whoa, the pungent miasma—eau de marijuana!

After I left town, individuals nonetheless needed to skulk in shadowy doorways

To smoke pot in public.

Laborious to consider now,

When pot shouldn’t be solely authorized,

It’s obligatory.

Laborious to consider, but additionally nonetheless simply unusual to me—

It’s like we’re all dwelling in a Wesleyan dorm,

Two minutes after Mother and father’ Weekend ends,

When the mothers and dads have waved out the home windows

Of their Subarus, “Goodbye, Jacob! We love you, Gracie!”

And the beloved kids, free finally, can lastly mild up.

Right here within the little park on the finish of my block, on daily basis is Pot Day:

Two boys and a lady, sweet-faced excessive schoolers,

On their approach to homeroom, sit on a bench enjoying Uno.

They swig from massive power drinks the colour of antifreeze

And take deep drags of fats doobies,

Girding themselves for one more day of boring, boring

Chemistry equations and trigonometric features.

Spiffy younger professionals on their weed breaks come mid-morning,

And mid-afternoon brings dusty development employees after their shifts.

And immediately, my goodness, there’s a jolly little trio

Of younger males in hospital scrubs, standing round smoking away,

On their break from Mount Sinai West.

No judgment, however is everybody excessive on a regular basis now?

I’ll observe what the Buddhists name mudita—taking pleasure within the pleasure of others.

Smoke on, associates! Have a blast!

O.Okay., I’m somewhat nervous concerning the three guys in scrubs,

Who look too younger to be medical doctors, however I’m sort of previous now,

And most medical doctors appear like Doogie Howser to me, anyway.

I ask the universe to please allow them to not be my physician

When I’ve to go to the emergency room after being run over by a motorbike.

♦