* s p r i n g *

spring has sprung.
the pollen has hit the fan.
for real.
warm weather, gentle rains, kids on bikes, pit bulls running wild down rivington street.
it’s spring. no joke.
wife-beater clad boys creep from their tenements and yawn and stretch.
get your hair did.
get your cornrows on.
ladies, get your nails hooked up.
it’s time to break out your flip flops, your fresh kicks, time to hang for hanging's sake.
everyone can feel it.
it’s spring!
a couple of nights ago i sat on delancey street in a little pick up truck, talking talking talking.
the rain fell down and the windows fogged up.
he reached out and tagged his name on the windshield with his fingertip.
and smiled.
and kissed me.
and i thought, now it’s spring.
a couple of nights ago at beige on the bowery: boys boys boys and men men men:
groomed, dressed to stun, filed six deep at the bar. the air thick with testosterone and gucci.
all attention on the dachshund in my arms
(when not on the rippling abs of the go-go boy.)
yeah, it’s spring.
last night i rode my bike down avenue A and a boy crossing my path on his bike called out, “beautiful!”
and i smiled.
and by the time i rolled to a stop at the light on houston street he’d come around the block to meet me.
“can you help me?” he asked. “i'm lost.”
“what are you looking for?”
“the D train.”
“just go straight down houston to broadway. it’s right there.”
“can you show me? i'm not from around here.”
“where are from?”
“brooklyn.”
“give me a fucking break,” i laughed.
it’s definitely spring.
woke up this morning with a text message from a boy (who has a girlfriend of his own).
“where the fuck are you?” he wanted to know. at 3 am.
spring spring spring.