Battery Park City

On the nightstand, my cellular phone—too unfamiliar, yet, for “cellphone”—begins to vibrate. A colleague; let it go to voicemail. 9 AM—well, 6 AM, far as my body is concerned. Still travel logy.

Two minutes later, buzzing again. Randy this time. He left for EWR before I awoke; a conference in Florida. I’d only seen him for a little bit between arriving and turning in.

I answer. My brother starts talking: he has a view of downtown from the terminal. I’m on my feet, looking for my shoes, my glasses, a goddamned shirt; phone, inhaler, wallet. Quick stop to pee—good move, it’ll turn out.

Through the door, into the elevator, through the lobby, past the doorman, onto the street (it’ll be months before I return), into the park, and turn.

I look up. I look up. I look up.

I am still looking up.