Down Christopher

I get off the bus at 7th Avenue South and
Christopher, walk past #89 where 30 years
ago saxman Denis and I played hostage.
The bodega where I bought our Löwenbraus has
metamorphosed into an intimate restaurant called
Andavi—andiamo, you and I, the spread out sky,
easy etherization as I continue on down toward the river; a tulle-filled costume shop, the Hangar Bar
for a bit of hand gliding, the poster in front of a
jazz club: Johnny Just Enough—top up, briefs
down, a trendy card shop, a jeweler, it’s Friday
night; several young men in yarmulkes carry
rainbow-color bouquets; across the street the
chocolate shop, in front of me two young women
hold hands; a muscular black man leaning beside
the Path entrance eyeballs a tall raw-boned
transvestite. It’s a Ken and Barbie bubble gum
world, a Stash n’ Stan raw beefcake world—“but
when night comes...” that glide ride, I feel myself
slipping into it—distraction spills its wanton coins.

-- Peggy Garrison