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before i take you into the licoln center, i remembered this little gem. i was sitting beside my girl and we'd rested a bit. i had bly on the brain and wanted to finish reading the book i had with me. so i asked her,

can i read some poetry to you?

she said,

yes.

so i got out bly. and she said,

read me your poems, mom.

and so i did. right there in lincoln center, i sat reading my poetry to her. my first ny public poetry reading, rather well attended i must say for an impromptu affair. she claps when i finish one. she tells me,

i don't want to be a poet.

i tell her,

sometimes, a hawk doesn't want to be a hawk, but what choice does he have?

she understands this. i don't pressure her to write or read poetry, but she's got it in her blood. i was able to read some poems from the drive out to ny, the ones about the slain snoutnose that died on my shirt. she hadn't heard those. and she liked them very much. her dad didn't want me to burthen her with it during that difficult time, but much has changed since then.

she enjoyed them. then we went in for our tour.

the sweet girl who toured us around (i know that is an awkward phrase but gave us a tour is lumbering, and i don't want to use it) was tall and slight. i knew, before she'd even said it, that she had once been a ballerina.

ballerinas are, in the number world ones.

1

all up and down, north and south, no detours.

my people are all eights.

8

abounding in detours, diversions, if you know what i mean. no straight lines anywhere. that my precious girl, with her body which is just like mine wants to be a ballerina, i find unrealistic at best.

belly dancing, flamenco, tango, those are dances for our bodies. those are earthy, curvy, voluptuous dances. our bodies naturally take to those dances.

so we're touring the center and the girl kept reminding us of the "theme" the state building in lincoln center was built with, the jewelry box. so she is having the girls point out items that reflect this theme. i'm doing everything in my power to keep a pokerface and not roll my eyes or let out an exasperated sigh.

imagine this, i'm standing around with the ladies and their daughters

1111 111 118 11811

and they are talking about how this arena is built for baubles and trinkets. so not what i want my girl to be getting out of this. then we get to see some of the retired costumes and photographs from ages past. they were nice. pointe shoes were shown, lots of stuff.

then we're marched into the arena where we saw part of a rehearsal for a ballet that has not yet had its world debut. if i could remember the name, i'd really impress someone, but i don't remember it. all i know is, there were lots more ones on the stage bending in all manner of ways.

111 Y N 11T K1

i wrote a poem. i don't know if it is any good. but it kind of expresses how i felt. may it find you well.

The body type of a ballerina
_____is a lamborghini
A finely crafted
_____instrument
For impressing and
_____high performance
A machine
_____called on to perform

I've never been much
_____into performance
I'm more of a Toyota
_____Camry
Something for getting
_____around
Good gas mileage
_____hardly ever breaks
__________down
Dependable

_____The body of a
__________dancer
is living sculpture
_____magnificence
__________embodied.
I'm more folk art
_____earthen, asymmetrical.


that is all i wrote when they shut off the lights for the rehearsal.

we moved like rockets and found our way home. escorted by a slight thing of a young man, who had a short blonde curly pony tail sticking out from under what can only be called a fadora which was white and had red and blue plaid designs (it was unique). he wore a linen coat and had an ipod bud in his ear. i kept talking to him, and he kept pulling it out of his ear, such a gentleman.

we met an african american man on the platform of the train, who helped us find the right train. there had been some situation on the tracks and things were rerouted. but we made it home. and such an immense weight of worry, the unknown was lifted on that simple ride home.

my girl and i, and the african american man sat in the only unairconditioned compartment on the train. it was HOT. there was a young blonde man in a green suit sitting across the aisle from us. his suit jacket lay on the seat beside him. he sucked it up. didn't look the least bit detered by the heat even though he was sitting in the sun.

there is something incredibly pleasing about a man who does not complain but just deals with whatever hand he'd dealt. the jarhead cut of this young man led me to believe he was a soldier, uninclined to pissing and moaning. he was beautiful in his willingness to endure whatever he had to, just to get home. he reminded me of a soldier very much.

my girl complained most of the way home about the heat,

it builds character,

i told her. a favorite line of ours from calvin and hobbes.

and so, we made it home at last.