Human Contact Inbound to West 4th Street

Thursday morning I leave 387 @ 11:21 bound for the Village. It was a sunny and unseasonably warm autumn day. I encountered no one on the street. The B54 was five stops away and I set off afoot towards Jay Street - Metro Tech, kicking fallen leaves covering in the gutter. At North Portland a crew of city workers were constructing new corners in the aftermath of a fatal accident last month. I commented classically, "Great work, but I wouldn't have doe it that way."

I had heard that criticism from many workers surveying my labors.

The concrete trimmer looked up with a smile and replied, "Neither would I."

Two of his group were loading debris onto a canvas cover and I said, "Don't one man that, unless you're looking to go on disability."

The trimmer raised his head and prayed, "Oh, for such luck. Then I can move to a red state away from all these liberals."

"And eat shitty pizza."

"Anything to live away from here."

Sie gesund in limbo." I had lived in Juneau for two summer months in 2016. No pizza and only meth bars to drink in, but great salmon. The 54 came by and said hello to the bus driver. A woman passenger loudly played some harsh to my ears and I politely asked if she would lower the noise. She did so with a sneer. Getting off at Jay Street I thanked her for the courtesy and we walked to the subway talking about poetry. She as a poet too. I gave her a copy of DRIFTERS. I recited her a poem about life and motorcycles. We embraced and I descended onto the platform. The A train rolled into the station and I rode it to West 4th Street.

Several players were in the Cage; George the Beard, Tom and James. George challenged me to a game to three. I gave the Beard the ball and immediately stunned him by stealing it from him and sinking a lay-up. I was also surprised. I stopped him two more times.

"Now I see why they called you the Brick."

I missed two more shot after D-ing him tight.

"That's the other reason I was called Brick."

George dropped three in a row. A victory. I thanked everyone and walked down West 4th Street to Professor Bertell Ollman's 9th floor NYU faculty apartment. The ancient Marxist greeted me with the smile. His son with a hug. I was good to live in the womb of humanity.