First Friday, Olde City, autumn: I watched Abby
seduce a curator in the Artists House Gallery, clawed
my way past buskers and vendors, up again to Logan
Square. Then, up 21st Street, over to the Franklin Institute,
out onto the Parkway, where a slight tilt will show
you the Art Museum; back over and around, and wandered
into my flat. The soft October warmth told me what
I wanted to hear, for a hot minute: eternity, ecstasy,
elevation, riding the waves on an ocean of buildings—
Center City’s own, wholesome ocean. A great recession
was approaching, destined to pinch some of us to death,
but in the end, it didn’t matter— Abby’s striped, clinging
gown that night, wavering between maroon and plain red,
marked my brain as permanently made incarnadine, for her and us—
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