One more trip out east to deliver firewood. Not what most out of towners think of when someone says the Hamptons.
It doesn’t often get cold enough here for ice skating
The area is strewn with modern art brought in or made by Manhattanites
There are though still farms of various kinds
And bits of times gone by remain.
February has turned to March, and March has turned to snow.
The evidence on the ground suggested otherwise.
I should walk past wearing a sign that says “Fuck you.”
They’re calling for 8-12 inches.
Meh.
I was back in familiar territory.
Other than the car that’s parked where the lawn used to be,
it looks almost the same as when I lived here.
Having grown up in suburbia, it wasn’t until I left it that I realized,
snow shoveling as day labor is a suburban phenomenon.
The snow makes the ordinary seem more interesting, more intimate in a way,
by blocking out background.
Meanwhile, underground, the stalactites are the least scary part of a Broadway station
on the G line that looks like it’s going to disintegrate.
It’s hard to get high shots in this city. The trains and bridges provide most of the free ones.
Speaking of snow, I miss Billy.