In those days I’d sit
By the window sill
In the cold dark daytimes
Of Winter.
I’d hear the blinds in the kitchen
tapping,
Then a chill followed by unwelcome cold
Breeze, from those gray days.
It was not morbid.
I was younger, Reveling in possibilities.
My friends would call me in the
Evenings, and we’d be
Be 40 year misanthropes
In Manhattan bars.
I was in the mindset of returning
To that small, wooded college
upstate NY, as I took a personal leave.
A sea of papers covered my
Bedroom floor with sophomoric attempts
At a novel.
I didn’t mean to make those memories,
Such is the way of nostalgia.
I’d let the tap from the blinds on
the window Keep calling me. I’d light a
cigarette and smoke.
Meticulously in moms kitchen. Letting
My thoughts ruminate. Giving into short
circuitry.
I didn’t need the Spring to
Bring me to my senses. It was still cold
Out, when I arose from that state
And closed the window shut.
Write New York 