by Kevin Pilkington I know every inch of this city like it’s my right hand. I found early on the quickest way to my wrist is the crosstown bus from the upper east side of my thumb. My great sense of direction didn’t help when I got lost in a novel and couldn’t find my way out until the last page. The plot moved over ten years and it was the first time I held a little over a decade in my hands and didn’t get tired. The final chapters tried to convince me there is an afterlife. It didn’t and it has always been a concept I just don’t get. Of course how could it when I never understood how Johnny Hartman wasn’t more famous, when every song he sings sounds like a warm sweater or even why proof is often found in the pudding. I notice there is a seagull sitting on the window ledge like whipped cream on a slice of apple pie. It’s a reminder the city is an island and the gull confused this heat wave with a wave on the East River then melted, dripping onto the sidewalk before it could fly away. I guess I notice more now ever since I decided to see instead of just look. Things move so fast my younger brother is older than I am now. Before I get too down and stare like an empty storefront COVID left on its way to another surge, I’ll go for a walk when the day cools off later and make sure to go out of my way and head towards the old tenement where the Marx brothers lived as kids and stroll by to remind myself the best jokes are always old, fast and in black and white.
Kevin Pilkington is on the writing faculty at Sarah Lawrence College. He is the author of ten collections of poetry, the latest is Playing Poker With Tennessee Williams which was published by Black Lawrence Press. His second novel, Taking On Secrets was recently published by Blue Jade Press.