Day 9- 9.25.20
Anthony Bourdain I
Sometimes I think I've just passed you on the street
bopping your head to the Ramones while
shimmying down Broadway.
Was that you sipping stale bodega coffee,
bumming a cigarette off a stranger?
When I heard humming, some Tony Bennet tune,
was it you, dreaming of hand-cut Tuscan pasta,
twisting your narrow waist to let me pass?
Were you the hungry ghost I felt on my tail
as I hurried to choose the two least bruised
sweet Vidalia onions in Union Square before
rushing down into the belly of the beast
to catch the south-bound 6?