Signs

Saturday, the West Village, maybe it’s Chelsea now
Walking along the High Line I see a huge yellow and red sign
“Tolerant of your beliefs, judgmental of your shoes –
Welcome to New York City.”

This is a tough city, you can’t be sentimental
So I brace up and look down at my shoes
Which are shoes only Walt Whitman could celebrate
And then because the sky is above and
The earth is below, I think of you, of your shoes
First the schoolyard sneakers and hushpuppies
Then the government-issue boots
Followed by wing tips and deck shoes
And sometime in-between you must have gotten
A pair of walking shoes. Though I wasn’t
Looking at your feet when you left.

When that happened, I thought about a quaint little cottage
Somewhere in Vermont where I’d learn about
Natural cures and unnatural desires,
Where I’d grow fond of cats and herbal tea
While I filled in for the local midwife
And line my cellar with pickling jars
But then I looked at the Chrysler Building
And knew I could never leave.

But it is an earnest afternoon and the Hudson
Is lapping while clouds shape change and tourist
Smile mindlessly at the funky confusion
And I sense you are still living on Mercer Street,
Wearing your worn-out slippers and
Maybe remembering the girl who once wore
White satin pumps and never learned
To read the signs.