Best Laid Plans
When I finally make it back to my birthplace, what will remain of what I once loved? Will I recognize the place? Who will be around? Will they take me in? Will it be too late? All my family and friends dead, or moved on. Will the rhythm of the street be familiar, or will it be like enduring a lame cover of an indelible classic like “Stairway to Heaven”? How much of what I remember is accurate? How will I separate truth from myth? NYC is Valhalla. Looms taller in my heart’s memory than the twin towers. Bedrock. Boombox. Sitting with the bleacher bums at The House that Ruth Built. Melancholy. Syncopation. Straight Talk. Efficiency. Cacophony. Chaos. Beauty so hardcore it tears at your insides. Will the city still have that swing? Will I? Will I have strength enough to strut down those streets again, or will I collapse into the piss on the sidewalk, shaking my cane at the sky?