I love random walks in forests made of pavement and shops. There
is wonder to be found—and reimagined in ink—in spots where the wildest creature
is human. But people watching while wandering New York City streets is not the
safest of pleasures, in the time of COVID. Still, on cool days when my hospital
dates end before the sun settles for the night, I delight in sightseeing The
My city is an un-stilled picture of our never-ending fight
for social justice,
a crystal canvas where we write and paint our brightest
thoughts and feels.
My city is a haunting glimpse into doing what one can to
some of the doing is splattered with feathers, rotting
mud, and fouler things.
In the wilderness of bricks and hopes that is my city, zinnias
of disquieting times,
for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #39: Plums and feathers).