Day Twenty: ‘The Taxi Dumps Him Out On Fulton Street’

April 20, 2017

Note: Written in late August 2016.

In the cab slinking round an empty
darkened Union Square after the award show,
he hadn’t ever felt this alone before.

Or maybe he had, long ago, and it was the fact
that this evening and the conditions that led
to it had evoked the worst emotional
exhaustions he kept buried in his chest.

It started in the shower hours before
the show as a howling panic and had now settled
into a general gloom, a yearning to flee
to white Alaskan north because the first
time he knew it, at 17, he definitely
didn’t understand what about the world
was worth running from. Now, at 26,
he knew: all of it.

Who was he three years ago, jotting angry poems
on a subway platform; and four, still in school;
and six, a kid kissing the door of cooldom
to gain its powers via osmosis? And who
was he now, a media dude with credentials
and bylines and all that? Why would he leave
that, or want to? Was it the people here,
the expectation that the destination
would be the happiness unto itself
rather than the added bonus?

The taxi dumps him out at Fulton Street
to trudge into a new day, but not yet.


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