there is an urban state of mind. more in common with each others, these cities. chicago, new york, washington. no different these cities from paris or london; rome or berlin. san francisco and toronto, the same. even saint petersburg shares a metro with singapore. and in the metro we wait together for the train to come to rest, opening the stainless doors. like in any city, cleaner than most.
sitting before the screen later, i will smell the dank air, see the sprung third rail. wait until the lamps at my feet flash in unison.
i notice her glasses. gold wire rimmed spectacles with a medium prescription. at the end of her powerful nose. blue eyes hidden behind. and she is sad often these days. sad for days before. like me, never having gotten over college.
still sipping coffee from a big plastic mug from au bon pain. steamy java in the grad class. professor winston napier. african american literary theory. sitting, fingering the xerox baraka, the xerox bam, the thick copies of out of print afrotext and the buzz buzz buzz of the blues men, the jazz funk earthy cool, sitting with the big boys, the intelligencia, the ebony tower. sitting there sipping a 40 of french roast and watching the leaves fall outside.
©1997 Chris Abraham
