Written Over

Written Over
by Ryan Buynak
‘Tis raining in New York City,
a good excuse not to go out into the world all day,
but I got shit to do,
and so I venture into it without umbrella,
umbrellas are for suckers,
it would just keep my head dry
and turn inside out with the wind.
I squint to the post office
and the line is short due to the rain,
but there are twelve clerks open.
Why is it that when this hellhole is full of lines,
there are only ever two people working the registers
and when there are only two customer, like now,
there are a dozen clerks, universal law, I guess.
The rain picks up,
I duck in a coffee shop
and ask for beer,
the brown dude shakes his head and just walks away,
skip the coffee,
I know how he feels,
like the world will end
while he is punching the clock.
Fuck it, I mumble,
as I bow to the thunder overhead,
a warning, doubtless,
to disappear, which I do so well.
Sorry, I say, to the day,
and then go to the bank with business
which I could’ve handled on the internet,
but paranoia is king here, especially in my ribs.
I walk out of my way to a branch
where they know my name,
Madison Avenue, I am probably the only long-hair
who ever walks in here.
Devine and I talk basketball
and curse LeBron for not coming to the Knicks,
he calls me Mr. Buynak,
no one has ever called me Mr. Buynak.
Upon crossing 96th street,
a truck catches a puddle just right
and soaks me from the waste down,
I laugh with strangers and figure I deserved something like that.
Hard luck, and until next kick-on Tuesday, I don’t give a fuck.
I drop off some books at The Corner Bookstore,
they like my stuff for some unkown reason, and they move it.
While inside, I catch a cold, and send a text message to someone
saying ‘Don’t Ever Give Up.’
On my walk back to my waterless room,
downhill is easier, and my shoes make slopping sounds,
I pick up a copy of the Times, and a bottle of Johnny Walker Red,
for it is time to read and shit and write,
they are all the same thing, anyways, like unobtainable love
and/or death…unused Lighthouses.
Once inside, I don’t do anything with lights,
I put my keys down and say hi to Una, the old lady.
I remember, suddenly, that I have a poetry gig
deep in Brooklyn tonight, and I curse, and I notice the silent second.
Then I hear the Rumbler shaking the building,
it was an Uptown Local, I bet,
and that is what I started with,
a story about some dude, lost like me, good at life,
but not great, riding the subway to…somewhere,
the typewriter is a symphony…sometimes.

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