The madcap ballet of the subway, a complicated dance: we lock eyes with those odd sweatpants declaring “my fête is my life!” and that shade of lipstick that must be Crayola carnation. Jaggedly up-tempo, the clanks and clatters make a cacophonous city symphony.
Then, suddenly, calm.
Swimming upstream but recognizing the current: The Routine.
Back on the sidewalks we go, walking to favorite shops for smoked trout and translucent orange caviar bubbles. No poetry in these simple foods: fish, bread, butter, eggs, citrus, and coffee, but none is needed.
Prose and Our Routine.
*Smoked trout from one of our very favorite shops, Russ and Daughters