Sat Nov 24, 2012
40 minutes in Tribeca on the way from Newtown to Boston
is all we have
before the parking meter runs out
so I transcribe the light of the setting sun in shorthand
(a cricket clutter of shutter clicks)
while you look for a bathroom.
the sun is running out
like a roll of toilet paper
waning into weary ribbons
as it soars toward heaven,
forgetful of the symmetries of the parabola,
the ache in the arms of your neighbor’s sycamore.
we leave with eight minutes to spare.
skeletons of metal and glass rip the skin of the sky,
autumn spread thick like marmalade
on this slice of highway.
the jar is running out
but the grocery store is closed.
87% of bathrooms in Tribeca are for employees only.