Leaving The City

“Stand clear of the closing doors please,” and off we went, leaving Ben and Jenny behind in the heart of it all, the financial core, where seldom, if ever, money is found, and oddly enough it is sometimes king, but more often whore.  Where people pass and hardly glance, but are always rubbing elbows with “who knows who,” and we headed into Bleeker Street station.  And on we went, and on and on.  And crossing Astor Place a man coughed, and the rest of the world fell silent as we waited for the doors to close, and they did, and we were off again.  And I remember I sat in that small cafe and said, “What's holding this place together?” Two hundred coats of paint, the last of which turned an old East Village meat market into a trendy French cafe.

And he passed like Peter Lorre in “Casablanca,” hair parted, hair separated, and that little black mustache like Jose Ferrer in Lawrence of Arabia.  What a strange cafe, what a strange place, what a strange day.  If only we knew each other a little better.  When the sound of voices could travel no further than an empty city block.  And I walked a lot, and never really talked to anyone.