Monday

After a night of bad sleep in uncomfortable boxers I stepped out to puffy repetitive sounds. A high-pitched drill at 8:02 gave me giddy pleasure. I'd clipped my toenails and liked how they now itched. I couldn't pay attention to certain streets anymore (like Chambers). In a dry cleaner's window a fan had rusted but never stopped spinning. As I curved along the last bearable stretch of Broadway someone handed me a complimentary Wall Street Journal. He took the paper back with a bow. It became a fun exchange.

All around City Hall people turned to smile at tulips they were passing. Wind had pulled a tabloid apart so that separate sheets fluttered across the lawn. I considered how butts hang nonexistent in current expensive jeans—how I'd almost been taken in by that. I approached a phalanx of Asian women at the bottom of Foley Square. They glided through a sequence of postures. Radios blasted martial music. It might have had to do with the Falun Gong.

Police led someone through a battered gate. The handcuffed guy asked his nearest escort How many cops in a building like this? She answered with a tone too soft to grasp. Where they once stood a guard's salami sandwich glistened. Rippling blue construction plastic made it hard to look at Columbus Park.

Plastic sleeves on fishmongers suggested flotation devices. The backs of fish marts resembled insurance offices: plywood desks, tacky paintings and fixtures. Melons looked luscious crammed in boxes.

North on Grand I followed one woman really tuned-in to all the blinking lights. Beside a going out of business 99 cents store somebody stopped sweeping the curb to think. A coworker consolidated styrofoam scraps. Another unscrewed the standpipe and shoved up it a giant rod.

Men paced Sara D. Roosevelt Park. There was a $20 flat rate to Foxwoods Casino or a $70 package with 52 in chips. A Brazilian left his bike unlocked along a pharmacy. My breath tightened. A woman stepped from Kossar's Bialys making almost indetectable progress. Stretch-pant stirrups clung at her ankles.

At Clinton somebody my age in seagreen cords flung her head, convinced I was following. There was nowhere to turn. The moment grew stale. Parking meter shadows lay stark and clean. An old man bulged his eyes from the exact edge of a project's yard. I thought I heard velcro.

Dropping down Broom I saw Chinese phonecard-saleswomen had a more professional air than clerks behind counters. They sat dressed a lot like stewardesses. Exercise troupes packed handball courts. One extended its motions with pocket fans. One old woman did knee squats. Others marched in place, arched their hips (everyone discrete as in a Balthus painting).

Beyond Canal two boys hoisted a rumbling metal sheet. A double-length bus blocked the crosswalk with me staring at its black accordion hinge. A Mohegan Sun agent hugged her clipboard: taxed but respectful of elders. Storefront temples stood well-rubbed and soothing. Someone straightened his mask beneath bifocals.

Exercises continued in Foley Square. The rear of a UPS truck held so many more boxes than expected but still wasn't that well organized. City Hall Park looked Southern, pink. At the one-man carwash Armor All and Windex dangled from rims of garbage cans. Just noticing made my pupils scratchy.

In the lobby Raphael seemed extra warm. He was training a block-shaped man to sit behind the desk. Picking up on this person's shyness I pressed my key against elevator buttons. Kristin exited reading a script. Man am I late! she said—kissing me, hurrying out.

Tuesday

People hurried by with their hands in sleeves (8:35). I'd left my hat at Kristin's. For once I could picture setting it down (beside the table with the phone). But our hemisphere had tilted towards the sun and there was room for dressing errors.

I crossed into the park heading straight for The Meer where a giant silver bird stood at its center like a bubble. The bird's charcoal beak resembled a sickle. Lodged branches swayed near the surface and I crouched, happy to be drawn there. A Saab followed pedestrian paths after turning from Park Drive five feet too soon. No one made much effort to get out of its way. Sparrows shuddered in fence slots. Squirrels finally looked trim. Friendly Snack Bar's salesman hosed the front tiles.

I wound through party-planning supplies and trucks parked along The Meer's edge. With somebody jogging laps around the Gardens it felt like I too was huffing. Pink-striped Dreamland tulips (thousands) sat set off by thin swatches of Blue Aimables. Two cordial women seemed to have forgotten each other's names. Both alleés had been converted into taut, glamorous tent corridors. Volunteers bugged the real bosses for assignments. The Peer Gynts had their moment as pinkest bloom. The South Beds still held a lot of withered narcissi. Amidst an expansive electric buzz I saw the Burnett Fountain flowing.

I wandered east across lumpy grass. I really needed to cover my hands but pockets hurt my damaged wrists. It seemed impossible that until this spring I'd never walked the park before noon. Curving with damp rock swells provided the day's most distinct impression (by far). I didn't know it then. This is something I should learn to recognize.

In the East Meadow samoyeds stood fixating on their master. It was mostly taut human couples in light spring jackets. Someone calling in a stock order smiled apologetically. Two chirping robins bumped chests.

Veering towards The Loch I watched one Russian go from cooing at his infant son to whipping a mild dog with a leash. This sweet labrador looked gray around the edges. Great Hill stood bare except for a busty baby-boomer throwing her retriever a stick as she climbed, smiling behind sunglasses. Through branches I glimpsed clear blue sky. A group of twenty birders approached—all dressed from catalogues. I wondered if I'll end up a birder.

I had to wait for a distracted nineteen-year-old to drop his orange construction flag before I could cross 110^th. Inside Organic Forever a pianistic, aromatic morning passed. At the counter an Aussi explained why banks sometimes want extra collateral. The Bangladeshi clerk caught on quickly, anticipating each sentence's conclusion, weighing my almonds without looking down. Back on Frederick Douglass someone sniffing in his shirt shouted Big guy. A dollar?

Just as I was promising myself No more than a glance at Morningside Park I came upon its waterfall. A basketball spun where water dropped. A park worker muttered, making me feel white. Geese opened their eyes but didn't untuck bills when I passed: except for one still dreaming.

On 116^th I read African menus, trying to remember which place I'd heard so much about. I think it was Nice and Easy. It seemed shady interiors (not bright windows) were a virtue up here. One tour-bus driver waited out the stoplight leaning forward with his chin on a fist. One carpenter carrying cement-mix bags took quick but delicate steps. I wondered if the Shabbazz family owned the faux mosque at 116^th (and had really been charitable as posters claimed). I wondered how it's decided which deli people hang out in front of and if there are times when a deli needs this. Gazing up I wanted to inhabit a room with curvy walls again.

Flyers on a neighboring scaffold said This Is What They Will Do, showed blueprints for a "mountain of million-dollar towers stuck between you and the park." I didn't doubt it. Re-entering the courtyard I noticed all the signs hung like we have a security system. Only from the stairs would I admit today I had to talk to Mr. Menon about August rentals. I turned back down then froze. I stepped and paused—since when so indecisive?

Wednesday

I couldn't put in contacts right away with Kristin getting ready for work. Judging from postures of people out the window warm temperatures were back. Finally I heard my love finish at the sink and sort through papers. I stepped from the building at 9:06. A boy kept sobbing but trying to sound mad. I hate you! he told his younger brother. You made the mess and I cleaned up everything! A passing woman with white pants made it suddenly the season for that color. A hunched figure filled the crosswalk as a Don't Walk sign flashed solid. There was nothing to do but deftly swing around her.

At City Hall Park a postcard rack got me thinking about my grandparents. An iron grid got pushed towards me by a construction guy with a blind spot. I wanted to know the fountain's name. I craved New York proper nouns. I need to develop a place-remembering technique—the way I'll hold onto numbers until I find a pen.

Climbing the Brooklyn Bridge beside a cloverleaf entrance I felt like one of the people in cars. I sensed some strange disclosure coming as an architect talked on her business line. I knew I was watching a Kennedy-class ferry dock at Whitehall Station. I knew Governor's Island. I didn't know what to call the silvery bridge cables. I wondered which cyclists would slip into loafers in bathrooms outside their offices.

I opted for the shortcut exit (a staircase). An unmarked police car blocked Red Cross Drive. The officer never glanced up from his book as I passed. Skirting Concerto tulips beneath the BQE I paused along Walt Whitman Square. Even listening to one sexy clerk's heels clack across the plaza I felt a little glum. I wished to have known this borough center before the 1897 consolidation.

An Hispanic florist nodded then froze and looked glazed. Construction pushed me out into traffic. I had to approach a cop for Manhattan Bridge directions. I prepared for him to just squint at me. Go back to Jay take the south ramp he said (but he was kind). There's no pedestrian path on the north side? I pressed. This felt frustrating, since one point of the walk had been to look for Williamsburg around the river bend.

One townhouse stood among blocks of industry (I pictured what it was like living there). I followed an irritating network of Keep Out fences to where a sign said Bikers Use North Path. Crossing back under the bridge I'd somehow started ascending the side I'd wanted, curving on the way up, smiling at a woman coasting past in cowboy boots. Her belly glowed beyond a button-down shirt. Below someone weed-whacked through crumbling lots.

A flickering bedspread made it clear one abandoned bank was inhabited. Storm clouds came in on cool drafts but close by millions of wave tips sparkled. Water slipped onto chocolaty beaches towards which I felt emotionally distant. The East River had no obvious current: spontaneous whitecaps, slick or fluttery stretches. The four impotent smokestacks near Vinegar Hill obscure far more mini-turrets emitting fumes. Sections of the Navy Yard smoldered. Beyond Domino Sugar I saw the humble warehouse where I lived for years. I remembered how glad I once got above it in final descent from Milwaukee.

A perfect crescent moon had been smashed out of a window. On a nearer windowsill a pigeon decayed. Asian men and women stood under Jobs Wanted signs—either smoking or with arms crossed. An old black guy hauled plaid blue luggage from a Chinatown bus towards Canal. Around Hong Ming Market the day turned familiar. A delivery cart had Natty Dread painted down its handle. Camera crews filmed pedestrians passing City Hall.

Raphael giggled into a front-desk phone. He wanted me to sign off for boxes addressed to Kristin's former roommate. I told him Justine might be coming to pick these up. Raphael said We're sick of this cabinet not shutting. Things got tense so fast. Soon I was riding the elevator, singing It Ain't Me Babe, wondering if Raphael watched on the closed-circuit screen.

Thursday

At 8:36 a bird I could only think of in relation to grackles fluttered before its mate, sang tirelessly with wings stretched wide. Someone with fingerless gloves jogged along the water boxing air. Someone in noisy shorts pumped as if elbowing through a crowd. Now that sycamores had leaves their yellow tint began tilting the park's overall hue towards summer. Willow reeds helped. Hemlock branches would occasionally shimmer.

Somebody stretched on a blanket, barefoot in slacks. His radio played smooth R&B. Another man had ridden a pink dirt bike to the bench where he slept now: slumped over.

Flushing waterfalls exhilarated me but I only realized it later. I thought about how often I spot maple saplings. I wondered if there's something prolific about maples. Robins called from piles of twigs. You are the true carnivores I said. Birders crept around bushy rock. One groaned. From the bridge a huge woodpecker fluttered, flapped off into pines. Ascending The Ravine I came out on a film shoot where everybody wore hooded NYFA sweatshirts. The boy in charge cried Let's clear a path for people—though my frown hadn't meant anything so specific.

At The Loch's edge two men practiced Tae Kwon Do. Both laughed but it looked like good exercise. An elderly couple reassured someone We might not sound convincing but we walk this trail every day. They more or less alternated words.

As I dropped down 96^th I passed about 40 bus commuters compressed in a rectangle with no one talking. A woman peddled uphill in khaki shorts, adjusted her handlebars, smoking. I read what I could from a beauty-parlor signboard. I tried to imagine a wash-and-set. I considered what's readily noticeable while rushing down Amsterdam: stressed-out pigeons, also church signs with verses in marquee letters. San Juan Farmacia had a slot where old men bought lottery tickets. NYCHA workers with masks and brooms startled sparrows picking at cheese.

I absolutely needed a wrist brace or something to alleviate my carpel tunnel syndrome. I hoped for a Kings' Pharmacy since in my mind they're cheapest. I couldn't remember if it's CVS or Duane Reade that's refused to sign a contract with its union for years. In Rite Aid "Joanna" by Kool & the Gang was on and the cashiers wore Islamic headscarves. After circling around a while I apologized for interrupting two Spanish-speaking clerks. The guy on a ladder grimaced and shrugged. Do you have wrist braces? I asked the woman on the floor. Her eyes went opaque. You know like a knee brace I said, squatting. Chec aisle 6 she said.

On the way back I felt cheated—like I always do after buying something, since what I could use the most is skill. I passed someone blowing off his job handing out free tabloids. Instead he talked with a friend. It was probably just shyness. From all the transparent recycling bags it seemed like everybody now owns a paper shredder. Peeking in lobbies I couldn't help wincing at a person steering a tile-scrubber.

One girl asked if we had crossed 108^th (street signs above). We talked a little about disorientation. Another girl carried a garbage bag of worn-out shoes in either hand. A conservatively dressed Asian woman added nuance to how I picture spring. I think it's crooked, a frail man declared, pointing at the skeletal high-rise. Yeah you're true his companion answered—pointing a finger at the first man's bichon. Police stopped cars amidst flashing sirens. There'd been a major accident where Park Drive curves.

On the way through our courtyard I saw someone had swept baby robins pushed from their nests last night. Inside I found Yuki and her sister in the kitchen. I almost opened the bathroom door on a different guest. The hall filled with laughter then surprisingly low voices. The snapping flip-flops made things sexy. Yuki sounded so self-assured.

Friday

With guests here someone's always in the bathroom. While waiting I wrote lists of people to contact before leaving for Berlin. At 9:12 I saw Yuki sitting at her computer but spun around (she looked exhausted). After two nights without alcohol I felt so much happier and had a memory.

More idle teens filled the park than before; it made me glad to be moving. Green bulbs climbed out from The Meer. Koi hovered beside a mossy police barricade. I wondered for the thousandth time if spontaneous rippling on a pond's surface always comes from animals. I decided that the closest man's method of fishing—where you're constantly casting or reeling—fit best with my temperament. In the Lincoln Correction Facility's rooftop cage I thought I saw rows of heads. I pictured inmates eating breakfast up there.

I pledged to pass quickly through the Gardens. Circling Untermeyer Fountain I barely paused. Still I couldn't help noticing freaked hybrids between Dreamland and Blue Aimable tulips; admitting the Aimables were too bold to be called violet; deciding that stumpy, defective flowers are necessary components of the overall day; sensing stalks rival blossoms for beauty in my unconscious; gasping when colors flushed as I crossed into sun. From The Meer's edge someone called out Tish! then Quiet the fuck down, yo?

Both allées fluttered like a feathery rug. A black boy flapping his clean linen suit made me want to wear white this summer. Half up the Pergola I listened to a songster, wishing I knew more birds' names. On my way down to the South Garden Spring Green tulips glimmered like candles. Don Quixotes proved the depth of pink. Peer Gynts mellowed into dry mauve smolder. Fidelios paused, lemony, preparing to dominate the beds, but late-blooming daffodils still pleased me most: Sun Discs, Suzys, Silver Chimes. Someone dragged her suitcase past it all, which I found totally impressive. My cellphone buzzed with untraceable numbers. I hoped it wasn't more bad news about my grandpa.

Meanwhile somebody aimed her cellphone and photographed bronze statues. A plump red cardinal lingered along a fence. I cut through fieldtrips considering how many sexily dressed teachers I'd seen since April (not just stylish but really arousing, and not afraid to return a glance).

A tubular bird like a heron but with thick breasts strode through the reeds—a Kingfisher? I followed it. When it started wading I followed some bongos up Lenox, stumbling across a blanket of pirated DVD's, almost stepping on a bottle of Bacardi 40/40 as Levi Stubbs said Didn't I treat you right now baby, Didn't I?

Through crowds I saw that the chanting came from a chorus dressed in white. I guessed the angelic boy I'd seen earlier was involved in this pageant of spring and gleaming religious children. Two limos passed with headlights on followed by a hearse spilling lurid flowers. A couple dressed with macabre formality (top hat, stilettos) marched ahead of a white carriage drawn by white, black-plumed steeds and a coffin inside the glass encasement marked Owens.

The singers kept repeating a refrain about "forever" which felt really monotonous and electrifying. Most boys mumbled but many girls started clapping with their own momentum independent of the song. I doubted this immodest dead person deserved my contribution to the scene. I turned north past two men wondering something similar. Sure you're alive, one told the other, But you still ain't got no money.

Along 114^th a couple Mexicans struggled fitting a water heater down narrow outdoor steps. On 115^th I discovered what's got to be my nearest library. Beyond its courtyard came what sounded like a CUNY commencement ceremony: City College, City Technological College.... But by the next block I'd crossed right back to the funeral. From Mt. Horeb Baptist Church's stoop an elegant crowd waved on the approaching choir. Random pedestrians broke into song: For-ev-er! and ever! One androgynous adult looked agonized.

I turned south past a clichéd, pony-tailed hippie, smirking above a sign that said Spare Any Change For Pot? At 116^th a mural quoted Martin Luther King: On the stairway of religion you don't need to see that whole staircase, you've just got to take that first step. This seemed a paraphrase—a little clumsy for King. Nearby sat a dusty storefront entitled St. Nick's: Video Games, Pool Tables, Candy, Chips, Etc. Someone squatted scratching Lotto tickets, wearing white Stan Smith sneakers without laces, surely crushing his shins. Behind him stood Tropicana cartons with straws. Beside a C-Town white-coated butchers helped the Porky's delivery guy stack dripping boxes. Faded graffiti read FIGHT AIDS / NOT / AIDS PATIENTS.

As he rang up my bananas the owner of Parkview Deli told a girl Get the fuck out I don't want your business. He aggressively fried some eggs. After you help this dude you can make my shit she yelled, not directing her words at anybody.

On the street I passed Yuki and her friends (with luggage). Luis and Frankie locked the building next door—I wondered if Mr. Menon bought that one, too.