Monday

As I spun out Kristin's door my cheeks dampened. At 8:20 sidewalks looked like crisco. Someone dragged three big boxes of salt behind him—enough for decades of storms. A driver honked accidentally then stared to her left. A bus for the elderly got packed in by plows. Gulls dropped from gray sky like flurries: sounding human, dangling feet. Others kept their feet tucked (which I've always found so elegant).

Jigs blasted from the hunger-memorial's camouflaged speakers. Songs gave way to shrill oration. A jogger strained to shout Morning through frosted monument posts. Following his slippery progress I ended up surrounded by waist-high concrete. Tire tracks coiled like spiral vertebrae. I studied my own tracks then, turning forwards, sensed I might collide with somebody and flinched.

The Hudson coursed—high and busy. The snowballs I dropped floated instead of melting. Lapping sounds bubbled up the embankment. Purple feathers swept by as if two pigeons were being plucked. New Jersey's skyline stood charcoal, truncated. Halfway out a cormorant gleamed.

Crossing North Cove Cherry Orchard boots I'd found in the recycling bin grew saturated and heavy. Some branches hung crowned with tiny pinhead buds. Some of these buds lay beaded and glistening. Exposed birds' nests entwined paper-products wound with withered stems. I paused to watch opaque sky through branches. A ruddy person veered off to the right. I said At least these fresh brown ovals punctuate the scene. But I didn't say it loud enough to make a man or muzzled husky stop.

Pine boughs sagged along the Esplanade. Only piers looked geometric. Through mist a bright orange ferry scuttled toward Staten Island. Garbage swirled, never leaving South Cove. A ladybug-patterned kickball rocked against the mossy river line. Nearby stirred foamy bubbles, jagged wood, bags.

An exquisite box lay slightly off-center in the frost-rimmed Wagner Fountain basin. A boy assumed his mother just pretended to spot the Statue of Liberty.

Follow my finger.

I told you I see it!

After half a regular walk I'd already turned around. My mind felt glazed. I was thinking of how I no longer like the broad lapels on my one suit.

Later I plunged down unplowed steps, tried to feel my way back into morning. I toured the embankment that lines North Cove. Police had forbidden this in the past but were bound to be more lenient today. Water spread in three directions. A seagull stood poised atop each post that demarcates the harbor. The closest bird cocked its head at me. I asked How can you stand on such brittle legs? Why are your eyes so red?

Amidst repressed father-son snowball fights finally appeared one Mexican family shrieking. When the dad pointed his camera toward the river two children slid and made slushy angels. The mom bopped her husband on the forehead, demanded he take a photo of the kids. Much of this was comically enacted for my benefit. Facemasked police weighed the scene down at its corners. As always both machine guns looked more like silhouettes.

On the return up Murray I watched a Diamond Meats truck sink back into a hotel garage. A tall blonde talking on her phone crossed the intersection oblivious of traffic. My voice wouldn't come—as it often won't in dreams. Cabs honked and skidded. The woman passed speaking some Scandinavian language. This blended with my mental picture of fjords.

Tuesday

As we descended at 8:06 Kristin said my most annoying trait is shoes coming untied. Ahead in the lobby a woman walked on crutches. Emilia from the drycleaner's smiled through glass. Stacked Wall Street Journals leaned against the store devoted to mailing things. My friend Jon's mountain boots felt like tourniquets around my ankles.

Kristin kissed me in front of Ceci-Cela. I strode through tabloids pressed semi-transparent. A phone booth stood dripping. So did awnings and scaffolds. Birdcalls sounded unusually like drips. Where whiteness fluttered to my left a Popeye's Chicken employee washed windows. He flinched at our nearness. He had cornrows. Across Broadway a tan woman turned so the fruit guy could stuff her backpack. There was nowhere else to look: all lunch-hour discount boards, bus stop Perry Ellis advertisements and hip-hop posters stapled to construction. An unused courthouse's carved figures suggested wind and spring.

I've never understood if Chambers ends on City Hall, or at least the new City Hall, or if official City Hall remains the Federalist compound with a park in back. Beneath towers I came upon a roadblock/police hut. A woman swept through screened by bushes. I followed into a relaxing plaza. Police cadets picked at bakery, circling each other like sparrows.

A second gate appeared with winding stalls (reminiscent of public pools). I'd made it through when someone yelled:

Hey! photo I.D.

Half-spinning around I said I just want to get back to Broadway.

You can't two guards said simultaneously.

What am I supposed to do then stand here all morning?

Sir step to the entrance and wait for me there.

A guard emerged from the hut, told me I'd need to be escorted out. She changed her mind and pointed down a stairwell. That way and left, on the far side she said. You're not allowed in here.

I don't want to be in here I said, then worried she'd radio for backup, then I'd hit Madison heading east. Crossing St. James I wanted to check out a van where I heard somebody rip his chewy bagel apart. I lost myself amidst mint-green characters on the back of Asian seafood trucks. I wondered which garden-level salons ever open.

Across Canal stood a chrome-plated cube that used to be a good dance club. I realized I'd just passed an ex-girlfriend's block. When I swerved back towards Market one woman assumed I was stalking her. We strode ahead unable to separate. Finally I stopped and tried to determine if the bird above me was a grackle. My vision grew weak, especially on details, but I loved looking through webs of branches at sky.

Passing Abby's I pictured a chaotic bedroom with amiable sighing Manhattan Bridge traffic. Mysterious podiums still fronted her hallway. As I looped back taking an alley a randomly parked Saab seemed sinister. Rutgers, LaGuardia and Viadeck homes seemed solid—even with spilled plastic bags outside them: purple-brown sport coats fluttered on ice.

Between signals pigeons pecked at crosswalk. Plaques commemorated a mission run off Henry. I immediately forgot the founders' names; it's so hard to remember that New York. Hasid boys framed by iron grids stopped skipping when they felt me pause. A middle-aged Chinese guy strolled down Division in sweatpants and flip-flops, not at all cold. An old Asian man pushed a delivery door. It budged. Surprised, he called for two women at street-level to follow him down. They glanced at me, embarrassed. People boarded an idling bus to Boston. The next minute consisted of slowly passing an enormous crowded fruit stand.

I followed someone limping (crossed more police checkpoints). A sign in front of the New Amsterdam Public Library said Sorry We Do Not Accept Donations At This Time, so I sifted through books left along the lobby, selected a Rand McNally publication entitled Around the World: a view from space—Authentic Gemini Photographs. It showed pictures taken from an altitude of 400 miles, captions describing "the drama of Fukien Province (Mainland China) at left, and southwestern Taiwan (Formosa)." The book still smells of pepper/cologne. I'm hoping pages don't stick when it dries.

Wednesday

After lying in bed sad starting at 4:58 I stepped out at 8:29. Beyond the courtyard big clouds streamed west. The wind resembled what I hear when I yawn. The one tree on our block stood hunched under scaffolds. Batteries and a blue lighter nestled in its plot. Two boys turned where Lenox was extra bright. Coherently dressed people looked calm without gloves so I tried taking mine off.

Small brown tassels dangled from sycamores. The Siberian elm just had two limbs cut. I wished more trees carried identification cards. A redhead back-pedaling on a fold-up bike created a pleasant gear-grinding sound. A gas station (Frederick Douglass) dispersed my morning focus. It was filled with taxis. Concrete tubes lay stacked in pyramids. Steam swelled curbside recycling bags.

Papery leaves along the Morningside Park fence confirmed a strong, consistent wind. Sparrows sped through fence gaps until one perched there. Both seemed better for it. I skated across snow crust. Ice covered the park's official wildlife pond cordoned off with Caution tape. Stray yellow ribbons rocked underwater. Fallen branches tore the stair-rail. Footprints melted.

Atop 112^th a woman smiled. She shivered beside a locked academic building. I didn't slow down. I didn't have keys. Her face slackened. Women clipped by in brittle-sounding heels. One must have sensed I was looking at her sexually. She seemed to half-torque to give me a full frontal view unconsciously.

At two consecutive coffee-bagel stands relaxed customers joked with cashiers. These were established morning rituals. There was a garden-level bakery I'll sometime try. Croissant trays cooled by the propped back door.

Part of St. John's steps stood roped. More snow bunched here than the rest of the city. On the way in I tensed preparing for a bag search. Dim lights dangled from construction scaffolds. The nave smelled like sun and dust. The stained glass didn't seem so garish. A thick boy with a buzz cut sobbed. A woman listened with her hand on his arm. Kids on fieldtrips crossed paths but didn't intermingle or really notice each other. They must have been in different grades.

Crossing Amsterdam I felt calm, uncertain I'd make it to the other side. I followed several pigeons until the Hudson lay below: impossible to reach. A staircase led one tier closer to the river. I started towards a craggy overhang. I and a pair of joggers kept hesitating to avoid a collision until we all stood pretty frustrated with each other. Afterwards I spun around. Tipped trash bins stayed padlocked. Bikes locked along a Chinese restaurant held multiple plastic bags tied to seats.

Climbing West End I studied a sycamore tassel. I found a better one and dropped the first. It took time sliding down—much farther than expected.

On the shortcut path through Central Park a young couple kissed in Christo vests. I felt in a pocket to confirm I had keys, pricked my finger on sycamore pods. For most of this walk I'd been thinking about the future (completely unobservant).

Thursday

At 9:27 sky was white. A street-sweeping vehicle brushed near me. Letters in my gloved hand were all I could think about—or else I'd forget to mail them.

Beige grass stood where snow had melted. Ice shards clung to bent-over reeds. Christo's assistants gathered beyond The Meer's edge. They unconsciously formed a perfect crescent. Park benches looked long and left me tired, like train tracks.

A mom slowed to let me pass in case I was a creep. A lhasa apso sniffing The Meer got dragged back towards cement. A woman pumped expensive cross-country ski poles. For four consecutive blocks I only saw females. Wavy tiles along Fifth Ave. hurt my shins. I was disappointed with myself for not visiting a Joseph Albers retrospective at the Museum of Design. I forgot to look when passing the Jewish Museum (I'd been reading about the Primary Structures show). At just the right moment I turned to catch Ward's Island Bridge stretch away from Spanish Harlem.

Stylish blonds near the Guggenheim got hydraulically lifted to the back of a truck. Across Fifth a security guard gathered herself. She lined her dashboard with stuffed animals.

Two businesswomen cruised down 86^th hoping to catch a bus dropping people at the curb. I cheered for them until one sidestepped the most innocuous puddle. Briefly we became synchronized, with the bus pulling forwards and her headed to the back. Students on a fieldtrip marched between us. A girl was able to run, smile and hold hands with friends walking at a normal pace. Her purple hat said CATHERINE.

A big family declined to cross 85^th because of flashing signals. I could only wedge around them by flattening a pizza box. Climbing towards The Met my vision never adjusted to a second tier of stone steps perpendicular to the first. Old couples argued if they should enter. The clerk craned her neck and held a palm out for my nickel: I watched her pupils expand.

I quickly crossed the Byzantine rooms, barely lingering on icons. Turning left amidst terracotta sculptures I skirted the giant Choir Screen. In a thick Argentine accent an elevator operator announced Exit at rear. Exit at rear! he told a Korean woman, who saw no reason to turn while we were rising. When we all stepped out she was the only one to thank him.

From the roof-garden Christo's Gates still didn't overwhelm me. Park lay obscured by additions to the architecture. Barren branches all seemed the same height. This was a view for evening, with people chatting as you gaze outwards.

Back on the ground I couldn't help pausing beside a lacquered oak cabinet overlaid with ebony. A humid smell amidst Arts of Africa and Oceania seemed somehow familiar. As I left I got to pass my favorite guard (she looks just like Sugar Ray Leonard), but otherwise this hadn't been the morning I'd intended; I meant to see the Rubens drawings.

Back along Fifth one Mayan nanny could barely reach high enough to steer her stroller. A woman waiting to have a wheelchair hoisted called friends from the bus stop. There was some awkward delay. There were stuffed tigers strung to the back of the wheelchair. Shaggy Japanese girls kept exiting a cab until a male slid out and shut the door.

The rich lady with ski poles cut me off again, behind an entrance to the jogging track. She bounced waiting for a walk sign—carried on funny conversations with somebody's schnauzer. In a car around 100^th St. a couple twisted and faced an old woman. All three wore thick wool coats and looked spent. A girl's sweatpants read CALIFORNIA across the butt. Someone collecting recyclables nodded my way. I wondered if I had stared too long. Only as I left the park did I remember bags of bottles lining our curb.

From the farthest courtyard I cut back to clarify what today had been about. Women waiting for a bus resented my reappearance. Sparrows scrubbed themselves in a dry dirt plot. It was sort of raining.

Friday

From the furthest lobby door in our building hangs a red Locknetics button you have to press. I paused there to collect myself. I wanted morning to crash against me like a wave (Marcus Aurelius). The door popped open at 8:06. The sky got bluer higher up. Puffy snow ringed garbage bins. Luis and Frankie (the superintendent and the assistant super) shoveled crooked paths. Frankie still wore his tiny leather jacket.

Every stoop had someone outside it shoveling. Extra salt kept getting tossed. I'd never noticed that Pentecostal churches have such gigantic crosses. A few churches cut trails from the street to their steps. Along others men chopped at ice with spade-like things.

An M-4 skidded beyond Duke Ellington Circle. I yelled as if yelling through the driver's window but already the bus had passed me by. Somebody selling wet Posts from the sidewalk winked. I wasn't at all kind to this man.

The abandoned boots I'd worn weren't working out. Still I dropped down Madison curious where the Upper East Side starts. A teenage girl looked calm without winter gear. A housing complex reeked of garlic. A pizza place sold garlic knots three for a buck. When I slowed to see what a garlic knot was it felt like pedestrians might smother me (the heavy security guard made some catty comment).

In the low 100's a woman slouched, annoyed, waiting for her sister to catch up on a cane. I've got a lot of shit on my mind the younger sibling told pedestrians. I crossed an intersection unconsciously and happened to be lucky the light was green.

Just as I thought, Spanish Harlem or the ghetto, or whatever my neighborhood is ends with a hospital—Mt. Sinai at 99^th. Equally predictable: architecture changes immediately but you have to wait 2 blocks before white folks start. At first it became blinding like a ski slope. A parking-lot attendant wore earmuffs in his shed. Tabloids said the pope would soon die. The Times focused on our fraught relations with Russia.

Arrows pointed down a plywood corridor. Dark bricks dropped into a shuddering vat. Soon there were bakeries. I wanted an almond tart. As I glanced in a diner someone studied its enormous menu through bifocals. A twelve-year-old with cream-colored tastes hailed a cab. His curly hair glistened. He was tan.

My toes chafed against the boots' suede tongues. A chauffeur led a handsome couple to the curb. All expressed relief turning up Park Ave. Bright trees stood budding and there weren't so many stores. I halted to let an au pair hoist Chinese kids whenever they reached a puddle. I fixated on stenciled reminders to curb your dog. A vista was coming around 96^th. A doorman swept at slush with his broom. Another talked to himself but it wasn't anti-social. A cleaning woman stopped to ask about his children.

I descended without anything to see (with even housing projects turned away). Two Long Island trains crossed paths shaving snow from the rails like bobsleds. I squatted 12 blocks from home with throbbing ankles. I cut west early looking for distraction. Shovelers leaned on handles now, talking.

Christo's Gates looked lonely and pure. A flier announced a mid-March rally to end the war. The song "Whenever you call me, I'll be there" was in my head and then I heard it on the lobby radio. Our lobby—I'd never noticed—has really nice tiles.