Running or as I felt, stepping through the mist



Smidges of little conversations flash by like the cars ahead.

The mist was the doors leading me, to the next minute, to the next hour to the next day.



Fast, the people walk. Almost a dance together. One motion. Practically rehearsed out; yet everyone is seeing something different.

I never stopped running because I needed to hear the next song, or see the next path.



Graffiti is covering, why, I ask, do you call this thing vandlism, meaning destroying,

I felt the mist taunting my skin, teasing me to keep running.



When, "Lady with the Pearl Earring" is no different.
The dog jingled on its four legs prancing along. Sweet songs stretch from the trees



Lay on my back, watch as the leaves twirl, float, maybe dance, down. And watch,

“it’s a form of art", we try to tell them

the mist settle down.









But of course, they will never
Understand, ‘cause, they’ll never be
New Yorkers…