Glaring across the way,
46th St shysters, kid brunch of an excuse not to bag the leaves.
Late last year, I could see the scramble flying across the kitchen,
baby rolling with the eggy spoon,
soiled apple rash of a face, someone scraping like hell at a waffle iron.
My face, a rash also, of anger and shame at my anger
and shame for having bought into the dream,
for not having considered what happens
when similarly cranky folk,
harbour the same dream and are driven crankier by it still.
Across the way, tapping the 'gansettled snow,
46th St wankers, oblivious to the resentments of fall,
mucking about with a sled.
A baby flails, its experience righteously new, and calls out to no-one in particular.
My stew is still in the oven from last night.
Ten minutes from now will see to it that I am full,
slumped on the couch,
facing 44th St.