Getting on and off the bus is something else. The bus arrives late–a crowd storms the exit door to leave.

I waited on a friend in a Barnes & Noble. Everyone coming through the door was beautiful. I wore a blue Sperry hat, blue cropped chinos, and my svelte Nike training shoes.

I go into Sephora before the shrink’s visit, not after. A makeup artist chose a blush for me called Torrid.

At 50 my attraction to Manhattan has worn off. It’s not the playground of my youth. I go there to shop for clothes. Like the sleeveless blouse I bought that reads: You Are My Favorite Daydream. It was my version of a mid life reinvention: a Coachella persona.

We all want another person’s eyes to light up when we enter a room. I serenaded my friend in a Brazilian restaurant.

The night ended. The Greenmarket vendors had folded up and gone away.

The moon rose like a communion wafer, host of a dream swallowed whole.

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