New York is here.

It's my lunch hour, so I go

for a walk among the rum-colored puddles

on Pine. First, down the sidewalk

where Seattle Central kids fork their clumsy

lime-stung fingers into tacos

with Jarritos, their Seahawks beanies

on. They protect them from wind

chill, I guess. Then onto the

avenue where pit bulls canter

on the leash and fling drool both

ways. The sun is weak, but the

bar signs glow a little. I look

at bargains in new books. There

are babies playing at the bus stop.

                         On

to Madison Street, where cars

blow exhaust under my coat, and higher

the rain pools lightly. A

shirtless man with a chest tattoo

flexes his biceps, toothlessly grinning.

"This is Bruce Lee's body!" A

bystander claps. Nothing

more: it is 1:40 of

a Tuesday.

                         Lakes in daylight are a

great pleasure, as Richard Brautigan would

write, as are mountains in daylight.

I stop for a coffee at ODDFELLOWS

CAFE. The Vaselines, favorites

of Kurt Cobain, "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam."

And Neumos-headlining. A man

in a flat cap on such a day eats pizza

while walking.

                         There are several construction

workers on the avenue today, which

makes it male and loud. First

the Fun House died, then Piecora's,

then the Hurricane. But is this

place as full as life was full, of them?

And one is caffeinated and one walks,

past the Babeland dildos

and the posters for CASCADIA and

The Stranger's building,

which they won't tear down. I

used to think Dan Savage worked

from home.

                         A sip of cold coffee

and back to work. My heart is in my

pocket, it is Lunch Poems by Frank O'Hara. recommended