The heatwave has been breaking
records all week so to play it safe
I keep my vinyl jazz albums in
the refrigerator. Miles Davis is behind
the milk, Stan Getz near the butter.
My apartment is cool enough for now
with the A/C set on a temperature
somewhere between my two ex-wives
and a brother I haven’t seen in years.
I look out the window and notice
a priest standing at the bus stop
in his black suit and white collar
resembling a pint of Guinness. A woman
in high heels holds an umbrella
the size of a dinner plate over her head.
Even though I can’t see her face
I recognize her since she still dresses
like a novel. Either I once slept
with her or she slept with me.
There’s a traffic jam on First Avenue
with yellow cabs stuck in it
like half a dozen eggs and just another way
the city stays hungry. It must
be the construction a few blocks
north causing the back up. I can see
a cloud got caught on the long arm
of a crane that now looks dry, out of water
and hangs from it like a white rag.
Sirens from a fire truck tries making
its way uptown through the traffic,
each car crawling out of the way and almost
mounting the car in front of it like
animals on Wild Kingdom. The siren
gets louder as it gets closer, reminding
me how I was once on fire when I first
moved here, a blaze no one could put out.
First Avenue like every other street in the city
has become a skillet. Those cabs are now an omelet,
the sidewalks strips of bacon and it all
goes with a side of toast. That’s why I’m
just trying to keep my place cool. In
a couple of minutes it will be
cool as Sinatra backed up by the Basie
band in front of a sold-out room at
the Sands. That’s how cool I want it,
even if it means bringing 1966 all the way
back around again.
