Like the doorman at 13th and 4th.
Always: “Good mor-niiing!” with an upward spin,
the way the hot dog man sells dogs at Yankee Stadium,
like the way that hot dog man smiled from first to third
when the man buying the hot dog tells him to keep the change,
when the lady buying the hot dog tells him to have a good day,
when the kid buying the hot dog says, “thank you,” and eyes
and grabs and gobbles the hot dog like it’s the first time
and the last time a hot dog will touch his lips.
Or how on the first of January, February, April,
your best friend says she’s going to start that diet,
but she has the burger—double, mayo, rings—anyway
and she doesn’t explain it to anyone, including herself,
because right now is worth her weight in gold.
Like the way that one woman at Prospect Ave.
always wears a dress three sizes too small (you’d say),
and heels three inches too tall (you’d think),
and her hair is in knots (you can see it).
And you haven’t even had your first sip of coffee,
or come to terms with having to step through those doors,
but she walks down the platform like she owns the damn station,
like she owns the damn train,
like the whole city was built for her to run.
Wasn’t it?
That’s the thing they call living.
Free. However she damn well pleases.