04 октомври 2016

Labor Day

Manhattan slows down. September
last ice cream truck on the streets of
SoHo, warm days still, a faint breeze maybe,
gentle sun. Quiet.

I cross Broadway, going west. The cars halt with
a subdued screech. Mind roams still. Last night there
was an explosion; a small fire and shrapnel.

The woman in the street with her coffee in one hand,
cigarette in the other, stops in the middle of a pull.


I cross Broadway, going west. Cars halt with
a screech. Roams.

The motionlessness spreads like a filter until it hits

The halal guy on the corner
wraps up a purchase with
urgency, thank you, see you, takes
off his shoes, careful it's a ritual
away from the cart on the sidewalk where he
sells some dangerous chicken over rice and onto
a piece of tin foil. Late - but only a bit late.
Away from the stream of human traffic.
He reverently bows, whispers. I know
he is facing
the Ka'aba.
A prayer.

Manhattan slows down. 12:49pm, in the middle of a pull.
I stop.

The middle of a rush, a pull. I pause.

For the first time in months, I pause.

My heart slows down.

Manhattan slows


Last night there was shrapnel, fires. Today
all there is
is the peace that we have learned
to cultivate.

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