I’ll go back to Manhattan
As if nothin’ ever happened

Coffee, on a Wednesday, not on the run, not tepid or tasting of a Styrofoam cup, but dark, sun-roasted beans, sun,

summer in a china cup, fine, white, with a wide saucer, Lotus Biscoff,

on a dark oak table in an airy café with clean floors, high ceilings, glass walls, chandeliers and Norah Jones and light, shimmering rain;

early-Manhattan-morning soundtrack, with view: 46^th and 8^th.

Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts, with police car parked, yes, in front of the latter. Hotdog stand and tour bus man and preacher offering God, pork, and promotional flyers for the other New York “musts.” More clichés: bright yellow cabs, angry drivers—already; fatalistic jaywalkers; Buy-Twenty-Get-One-Free I Heart NY T-shirts made in Bangladesh, sold by a Pakistani.

Light traffic and light rain, still. Heavy clouds; storm later. For now, though, coffee, a floral, flowing dress; resistance. Quiet, sipping coffee in defiance of

Manhattan…

Norah sings. It isn’t going away. It, the world, cold, life and noise of running time and trains,

just a train ride away…

can wait a moment,

out of time and place and pace, out of the blue, and grey of a Wednesday, for the length of a coffee and seated performance of muted, misty, rain,

rain-speckled life on the corner of 46^th and 8^th:

Rushing blazers, trench coats, heels, I-Heart-NY ponchos, presumably not bought on sale. Umbrellas tilted forward, at aggressive, charging angles, aimed at the subway entrance or cabs whose drivers now appear ecstatic…

Coffee, meanwhile, light roast, steam almost tasting of a warmer, slower time, in this summery…

dress and in a place where it could be worn, floral, flowing, easily;

and idleness permitted, encouraged;

patience, easy;

kindness, not out of season. Rain would be okay, to drink, dance, kiss in …

Only the rain, eventually, stops on 46^th and 8^th. This glass pane must mirror the street; no one, rushing, looks in. Some children, tugged along, arms taut, clearly aching, struggling to keep up with big, adult paces, make clown faces at the glass, stuck out tongues… at me? I stick mine out too, but they

are gone, already, or could not see me at all, and anyway—

a boy stops. About three. Breaks loose and stares, not at me, the glass, his reflection, but right down at his, the world’s, my own feet, where

a woman is begging, wet, bent, rocking, wearing a dress,

like me,

too thin, summery, for this weather, pace, city. I should go back to Manhattan. I didn’t even see.

The boy’s mother does not stop. Nor does Norah Jones. I do not stop life, the world, do something heroic,

like take coffee out to her, the Lotus Biscoff, or take her and every other homeless person in Manhattan, somewhere warm where it never rains, take down the glass wall on the corner of 46^th and 8^th…

Someone gives her five dollars. She crosses the street and enters the Dunkin’ Donuts. Someone behind me places a bill on my table:

“No rush at all, Miss. Whenever you’re ready.”