• Carly Feinman

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?

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