There was a point when I turned a corner and laid my eyes on Georgia O’Keefe, and I stopped in a door frame, not stepping any closer. Blocking museum goers, I inhaled as for perfume, as for steaming food, and then I cried – that quiet feeling of recognition, something of earth and death and sex and God.
We walked together through a million people, up one mighty tower of Babel, and we looked down at one kingdom, and one beautifully landscaped park. We ate hailed cupcakes and weren’t all that impressed. The lights stimulated and then numbed. Sometimes that’s exactly what I want. In New York, I was his. I was mine.
I walked and walked and walked and touched shoulders with hundreds of home places, languages the music God loves. I sat next to two bawling men who held each other, and together we watched the Jets and the Sharks remind us of one of the oldest fights. We left and said, let’s love each other better than that.
I ate a most beautiful sandwich, perfect, the size of my head. I dined in atmosphere provided in dreams. I saw exquisite leftovers passed out to street-sleepers.
And then I woke the third day, and I wished for a cow pasture and a pine thicket. I could do without another pigeon threatening my airspace, my hair. I could do without a few unfortunate fashion whims that claimed the streets.
Welcome me home free water, clean open air, the boys and their many fingerprints, the 10-year-used King bed. I am glad to be home, in the art that is truest to me.