I don’t need to live there anymore. For
a quarter century I took its best
shots to the head, throat, gut, balls, buttocks (or
was that my wallet?), most of all the chest
and its fragile pounding muscle. Listen,
you’ve never loved till you’ve paused in Herald
Square at midnight—snow swirling like legions
of lost moths—pressed to a woman who holds
your soul as you move as one, handing your
doggy bag to a shivering homeless
angel, her eyes flinching, then glowing pure
light at taste of a lukewarm meal. She blessed
us in her rasping breath, her bony white
hand waving high till we were out of sight.
Roger Armbrust
February 12, 2009
