I stayed in most of the day. It was raining. When I finally stepped out just before dark it smelled like spring and tiny stray drops struck my face.
In the toasty post office a stranger said "You dropped a sock" and everyone within earshot looked at the infant's pale foot which the embarrassed young mom hustled to cover up. I was certified mailing a negative of a day spent not too far from here exactly two years ago when I lived in Brooklyn and Libby had flown up for a Valentine's Day visit of sorts with her friend Danielle.

Two four eight three was empty again. I'm expecting pictures.

I caught this guy reading and wondered if computers will ever completely replace the thrill of standing on steps and turning pages.

Believe me, it's no luxury to live above a cleaner's. I do and even with abutting wall's windows shut I can smell the fumes of antibiological agents purging garments of their filth.

I'm rounding the corner of 1st and 70th to buy a tomato and cup of coffee at the Fruit Bowl when I see the family decabbing in front of Old Mr. Krtil's, a man whose bid to burn my dad was too high in1973 dollars.  
The young woman (daughter, niece, wife, fof?), the young woman, her Funeral Home perfume came to me heavy in the air. It was just that kind of a day, stuffed animals and shiny cardboard hearts in all the drugstore windows.