Linda and Stuart, trapped in their apartment
Seventy-ninth and Madison, the one they bought
Fifty years ago. No fancy lobby, no baroque Fresco
The deliverymen, in their light blue surgical masks
Knock twice, leave groceries double-bagged at the door
Then cross the street back to the shop and the basement below
Last week I called and asked, “How’s your relative stock of despair, today? ”
Linda replied, saying, “Gabriel, I know I really shouldn’t complain
But each month this persists is one that we’re not getting back
For we’ve little time left on this spinning marble. ”
Her point of view I can’t dismiss and what is there to say, in fact?
So I'm left with hollow platitudes to mumble
Straining to hear a few bars of the Upper East Side
I find I’ve not allowed myself, haven’t really had the time
To miss New York, the freak show light
That universe of regret that I keep locked in a wooden box
With all the other thoughts and self-pity
Maybe sometime yet I’ll hop a plane and catch a taxi
Downtown, just to hear the sound of the old city
Sirens and the subway and the slurred words of the shirt-sleeved men
On the town to toast the close of a deal
That shuttered the last factory in every town
In Michigan, where the union boys are stone-faced at the wheel
Linda tells me she’s taking a writing class
On the art of the short story, and I say, hey that’s great, ’cause
We all need a way to make sense of the world
