Literature
Me and Elmer
Me and Elmer
by p.b. wells
I was walking 51st with Elmer,
and the city was doing that thing it does.
steam pouring out of grates,
trash bags ripped open at the seams,
piss stinking up the curb,
some half-dead pigeon flapping against a lamppost.
and then the beautiful Gershwin,
big and glowing,
with its green witch faces plastered across the brick,
promising spectacle and salvation
for the price of a hundred-dollar ticket.
People weren’t looking at the signs, though.
they were looking at us.
correction.
they were looking at Elmer,
but I was caught in the blast zone.
they pulled back like we were fire.
not casual sidesteps,
not the usual city shrug,
but full-on leaps into traffic,
horns screaming,
tires squealing,
like they’d rather be flattened by a bus
than brush shoulders with us.
New Yorkers don’t give you space.
they’ll shove you down a stairwell
and call it progress.
but that day
the whole sidewalk cracked wide open,
and for a minute
I wondered if I was losing my mind,
if
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