It Was on a Tuesday

This particular anniversary seems more significant because it happened on a Tuesday. September 11. Eleven years ago. All those elevens. All those ones.

Individuals.

This poem happened the day after the 10th anniversary. The numbers switch around in that date and today’s date. Two lines are missing, or I’ve debated leaving two lines in, so I don’t think it’s a final draft. I can’t seem to find those lines right now.

Or, there’s just no final draft at all.

It is 9/12/11

nine twelve eleven
nine one-two one-one
as if my fingers
swollen and sweaty
slipped while dialing
and starting over never crossed my mind.

No one will come
until I hang up
and think more carefully
to push
finger pads to keypad
with motions that should be automatic.

At Sunrise in Inwood

IMG_7376

“[New York] carries on its lapel the unexpungeable odor of the long past, so that no matter where you sit in New York you feel the vibrations of great times and tall deeds, of queer people and events and undertakings.”

-From Here Is New York, E.B. White

E.B. White is incredible; I’ve loved his writing from Charlotte’s Web to Once More to the Lake and beyond. This essay is one of the finest I’ve ever read. Maybe it’s because I live here, but it feels like more than that. It’s bigger than that. Please find a copy and read it, and let it nest in your heart, so that we can agree about something.