I get off the bus at 7th Avenue South and
Christopher, walk past #89 where 30 years
ago saxman Denis and I played hostage.
The bodega where I bought our Lowenbraus
has metamorphosed into an intimate
restaurant called Andavi-andiamo, you and I,
the spread out sky, easy etherization as I
continue on down toward the river; a tulle-
filled costume shop, the Hangar Bar for a bit
of hand gliding, the poster in front of a jazz
club: Johnny Just Enough— top up, briefs
down, a trendy card shop, a jeweler, it’s Friday
night; several young men in yarmulkes carry
rainbow-color bouquets; across the street the
chocolate shop, in front of me two young
women hold hands; a muscular black man
leaning beside the Path entrance eyeballs a tall
raw-boned transvestite.  It’s a Ken and Barbie
bubble gum world, a Stash n’ Stan raw
beefcake world—“but when night comes…”
that glide ride, I feel myself slipping into it—
distraction spills its wanton coins.