New York, Briefly

The pigeons were here first, and they have never let anyone forget it. They strut the avenues like landlords inspecting a property they intend to keep.

Steam rises out of the streets because the city is cooking something down there. It has been cooking it for a hundred and fifty years. It is not ready yet.

The taxis speak one word, fluently.

A rat once carried a whole slice of pizza down the subway stairs, and the city, which respects nothing, respected that.

The bodega cat sits on the ramen like a sphinx with a business plan. He is the mayor. Everyone knows this. The other mayor is temporary.

Eight million people, none of them from here, all of them more from here than you, cross against the light in one body, briskly, like it's a civic duty — and it is. As required by law, a saxophone.

Central Park is where the city keeps its one deep breath.

And yet: drop your groceries on Ninth Avenue and four strangers with no time, who have never once made eye contact, will kneel in traffic to gather your oranges.

The city is rude the way family is rude. You can stay forever. It never said you couldn't. It just needs you to walk faster.