New York American

I solved the puzzle on the cereal box.
I reached inside for the prize and got yellow cereal dust
lodged under my nails. Someone a few floors down is playing
the French horn. I start to do a little jig for the day,
a swell beginning to a strange new modality.
I hire my successor and kneel before the frail and frumped.
Walking down Bergen Street is good for the moment.
I pass a bundle of light rolling down the slope.
The first swelter of summer has come upon us.
Salt rings and stink blooms on t-shirts, album covers warp,
while shiny crap on the street turns fetid and astral.
All the shoe leather and rubber heels I've left on each separate
block; marvelous specks that will signify something when they figure
out how to reassemble it and give someone else a chance
to walk down the right block. School kids bolt past me on their way
away from school. I'll settle into something in the shape of a chair,
gouged by the radiant dumb fuck of the day, which is better than not.