Flatiron, at Sophie’s

This is where the
East and West Sides
collide into one,
sharp bow tie,
where Broadway
first kisses Madison,
as nomads wander
in NoMad,
shaking off the spells
cast by their workdays

I shared the handle bar
on the R
with two Tibetan monks
wearing robes of 
maroon and saffron;
they smiled and stopped talking
as I tried to stand past,
but the Brooklynites
heading home to Bay Ridge
were all in the way.

I made promises
I had to break
long, long ago, under 
the shadows of the
mighty Flatirons;
oh, the stories 
they could tell…

I remember us here,
eating empanadas 
at Sophie’s on 23rd St.
not so long ago,
when things were
so much simpler, 
before jobs became careers,
before walks became walkabouts,

Before there was  
just the two of us,
against the world,
taking pictures of buildings 
between the West and East 
Side, almost effortlessly,
making fun of the suit-wearers
and their bow ties,
as they try to let off
some stream
(once bending the old irons)
after work.

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