It’s my lunch hour, so I go



for a walk among the hum-colored



cabs. First, down the sidewalk



where laborers feed their dirty



glistening torsos sandwiches



and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets



on. They protect them from falling



bricks, I guess. Then onto the



avenue where skirts are flipping



above heels and blow up over



grates. The sun is hot, but the



cabs stir up the air. I look



at bargains in wristwatches. There



are cats playing in sawdust.



On



to Times Square, where the sign



blows smoke over my head, and higher



the waterfall pours lightly. A



Negro stands in a doorway with a



toothpick, languorously agitating.



A blonde chorus girl clicks: he



smiles and rubs his chin. Everything



suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of



a Thursday.



Neon in daylight is a



great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would



write, as are light bulbs in daylight.



I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S



CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of



Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.



And chocolate malted. A lady in



foxes on such a day puts her poodle



in a cab.



There are several Puerto



Ricans on the avenue today, which



makes it beautiful and warm. First



Bunny died, then John Latouche,



then Jackson Pollock. But is the



earth as full as life was full, of them?



And one has eaten and one walks,



past the magazines with nudes



and the posters for BULLFIGHT and



the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,



which they’ll soon tear down. I



used to think they had the Armory



Show there.



A glass of papaya juice



and back to work. My heart is in my



pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.





