The day heavy, not moving in currents, the
humidity
dense but not cold enough to wet my face. And
the waters move,
gunmetal grey light under shadows.
I mostly feel
dirty, more than anything
else. I don't feel relief or
emptiness or any of
the things I would have expected. Just grey
through my pores from
stale smoke and stagnant
air.
I wake up tired and wend my way through daily
motions, talking functioning moving.
Down by the Hudson, the seagulls are attacking
innocent tourists and I leave my sandwich on the
bench for the fucking birds. 'Feed the birds,
stuffy old nags'. For some reason this impromptu
rhyme strikes me as inordinately funny and I grin
like a fool as the sky tries sunny and turns back
to grey.