Nearing Penn Station

April 2, 2013
(Inspired by Monday's ride into Penn Station for a conference at the SUNY COIL center in Manhattan the following day.)

"Next stop, Penn Station, New York City."
Anxiety, excitement.
My heart pumps up the blood a little faster,
as the street signs change between tunnels
and the train rocks over tracks that seem a bit rougher.

Twenty minutes.

Do I have all my things?
What should I do first?
Seventh Avenue or Eighth?
Uptown or down?
Walk or ride?
Hot dog, falafel, or sit-down restaurant?

Visits in my early twenties taught me the importance
of having a plan,
of keeping the vitals strapped tight to the person,
of looking straight ahead,
of walking fast,
of acting like you knew what you were doing,
where you were going.
In reality, I didn't have a clue.

Ten minutes.

Today, I don't have a plan, really.
It's raining.
I want to get to the hotel room,
dump my bags,
and write.
But it's New York City,
my head tells my pumping heart.
Live it up.

I ascend the elevator
and decide to walk to Grand Central Station,
at least.
To there, I can soak up some city,
From there, I can ride into Queens.

Check-in,
Shower,
Go to Jackson Heights.
Shop.
Eat.
Go back to the room.
Write.

I enter the gray light of April.
Horns honk,
the air feels thick.
The city has changed since the last visit, it seems,
in five months,
what can change?

Seasons,
air,
buildings,
temperament,
signs.
Change is the constant of vitality,
the hub of the place
where one acts a part of a scene
in which she hasn't a clue.