the little sparrow

There was the walk home. I know it so well I don't even have to look up. Leaves now, that wonderful crunch. The sunny side of the street. Edith Piaf. A glass of wine, stack of books. The stoop.

I remember that song about the music on Clinton St. all through the evening. And lost amongst the subway crowd I try to catch your eye. And then that sunny cottage kitchen where I taught myself how to cook, barefoot and so totally free. I remember bong rips and stacks of Lonestar cans. Smoking cigarettes on the steps, spying on that cute single dad with the toddler. Space heaters. The giant claw-foot bathtub. Stealing the neighbor's lavender. Some of these things are connected. Some songs carry me through life, like a raft. Or a life jacket.