My wife and I recently again visited New York for a weekend. It was rainy and beautiful and we found ourselves at Chelsea Market. I wrote this poem while my wife tried on clothes at Anthropologie. It is nothing much, but a snapshot of time and place and definite people.
Chelsea Market 2024
Late September rain paints a gray dirge of day,
And under an excavated aesthetic
We taste the strength of smoked turkey and salmon
On everything bagels;
We sip simple water of bygone factory workers
From shops laced with technology but faced
In patina. We are young parents
In anniversary, talking as our ancestors
Might about the young people and artists
Who wear paint on their clothes
I would look ridiculous in but probably also hip
In a way. The bookstore is banned and full of eager people who really I need to be more like, I’m sure,
To read more. Ah, it’s the smells and sights and so many conjunctions’ worth that it doesn’t matter
Like the safe, poppy music over scalloped patterns
Of mud-mosaic tile while she envisions
Herself in incarnadine and floral skirts and dresses.
It is a sweep of confidence and re-imagination
In commerce.