Circa 1968
In a Hawley Street laundromat,
the urban housewife’s last resort
become a resource for hippies
I am waiting for our clothes to dry
sitting atop a washer, reading a paperback
my feet draped in front of the window
We’re all cool
A helmeted motorcycle pilot
escorting a pretty, braless lady
hurries in the door
He walks directly toward me
“Are you Ralph?” he demands
“No, man. Sorry.”
His girlfriend, almost panicking, looks around
“Does anyone know who Ralph is?”
The washing machines continue
their low and persistent rumble
A black kid folds clothes on a table
No one admits to knowing who Ralph is
What the Promenade Remembers
A morning walk, a small act, and the quiet difference between what we notice and what we leave behind.
The light on the East River in the early morning is different from the light anywhere else on the Island. It comes in low and sideways, catching the water in long, uneven flashes. On certain days it makes the promenade feel less like a walkway and more like a corridor someone once meant to finish but never quite did. When I was younger I found the suggestion to stop and look at it faintly ridiculous.
