40 minutes in NYC

40 minutes in Tribeca on the way from Newtown to Boston

is all we have

before the parking meter runs out

so I transcribe the light of the setting sun in shorthand

(a cricket clutter of shutter clicks)

while you look for a bathroom.

the sun is running out

like a roll of toilet paper

waning into weary ribbons

as it soars toward heaven,

forgetful of the symmetries of the parabola,

the ache in the arms of your neighbor’s sycamore.

we leave with eight minutes to spare.

skeletons of metal and glass rip the skin of the sky,

autumn spread thick like marmalade

on this slice of highway.

the jar is running out

but the grocery store is closed.

87% of bathrooms in Tribeca are for employees only.