I decided to go to the Post Office

Its only 430am

Had to get something in the mail

Right away then

 

I grabbed my coat

And ran outside

Slid my way

Across the icy snow

Down to Houston Street

 

I grabbed a cab

Around the corner

On Bowery

And slowly crept west

 

Alexander Filippou was my driver

For the evening just now

He feels tingles in his left arm

And a pain in his chest

 

No, not the doctor

He just needs rest

Alexander explains to me

Through our plastic barrier of exchange

 

We continue through the ice

To closed 6th Ave

And then to 8th

We pursue

 

Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that

Alexander curses

I nodding my head

Making mental notes

 

Filippou pissed

He has to work hard

To pay the rent

But can’t get the Co-Op

Because the immigration is bothering him again

 

His mother and sister

Still remain behind

As the Ryder truck tailgates

Dangerously

They are in Russia

I’m sure cold too

 

We make our way

Through the tiny streets

To the avenue of 8th

Where we belt up North

 

Alexander tells me

How he was a trained fabricator

In his homeland of Russia

Supervising ten men at a time

 

He explains to me

The I-Beams of America

How strong they are

Buildings lasting for hundreds of years

 

Alexander wanted to open his own

In Brooklyn town

But they call for papers once again

So, he works fifteen, eighteen hour shifts

 

After the red and green lights

We arrive at 33rd street on 8th

My grand post office is open

Of course

24hours it is, indeed.

 

I wish my friend

Alexander

Have a goodnight

And give him 9 “I Am America” bills

 

Walking up the flights of icy white stairs

He goes off slowly

I’m sure with American dollars

Trying to make sense

 

The post office was usual

Security

Remotely tight

Because of Iraq over there

I do my business

And carry on with my art

 

I step down the stairs

And see the sight

I take some photos

to remember this night

 

I walk my way

Down 33rd and now up 7th ave

I want to see the center

Where it’s at

 

A few delis open

Selling produce and New York bagels

Of which I have none

Not even one

 

I get to the epicenter

Right near the NYPD

I’m in Times Square

To be an artist

 

I take my photos

Vertical and horizontal

My fingers now numb

In the coldness I share

 

Not to be too shy

I was on by

The porno shop

Even this too

Is not closed

On a night like this

 

Should I go in?

Just for one dance?

I’d like to see

That naked horror dance.

 

You know me well

I ventured inwards

And to my surprise

Only video tonight

 

Dollar booths with porn

With sounds of animals

Because the women who worked days

Are not here at this hour

 

Defeated in a way

I walk away

Down South on 6th Ave

Until I hit Broadway

 

I remember walking down

On sunny days

In the spring time

When it was warm

 

And that first walk

That I did many years ago

First exploring

The city, my city

I’m an artist

This is what I do

I observe everything

Welcome to my world

 

Running through the streets

A Bosnian effort

Of white delight

And tomorrow’s nightmare

 

I finally get to bed

Only to write this for you

It’s now 6:14am

Give me another hour

I’ll be up for twenty-four

Goodnight.

 

 

 

 

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.01.14.06:18:59 @ 296 NYC