By now a snowfall would be freak. Your nose keeps running while I fret over which coat. You assess my fret. You assess the days remaining of itchy, watery eyes. My dear, I may not be ready to give up my wool.
Today, in the West Village after I exited a bar tipsy on poetry and "seasonal" Summer Rye, I saw three women dancing next to an open car door, their booties lifting lifting air. They hung on tight to their Big Gulps of God knows.
Not far was that basketball court where I like to watch the men shove and grunt. Only there, en plein air, their shoes didn't squeak like I like.
You're at work by now. My upstairs neighbor is nailing a home improvement, the very sound of him urges me to renovate. Down here the heat is still whistling from radiators.
On the street today I saw a man holding a posterboard up high, almost blocking his yarmulke from view. Same ole same ole: Lost my job, wife sick, need money. I may not have read the sign had he not been wearing a yarmulke. How rare to witness the orthodox beg.
How now? You know what I mean -- with you and me. For example: how to keep our pivots from squeaking. For example: how to assess our assessments. For example: how to ask without appearing to beg.
Spring can't be counted on. Only this: its up buds and days of rain and sudden drops in temperature and your eyes your eyes. I remain cautious, knowing full well it could snow.