I want to write, yet it’s not there. I stroll, I look, I see, I feel…
I watch musicians ignite toddler’s tapping toes. The cheer of children spreads like a happy plague through the crowd.
Bad moods fall like dominoes.
I watch street performers beckoning strangers forward. Dancing on Broadway, a pavement stage.
As bodies flip and hands clap, I am amidst entertainment, yet I am not entertained. I mimic the crowd, without mirroring their emotion.
My smile doesn’t reach my eyes and my clapping hands don’t find the ears of others.
I sit, pen ready…
Point doesn’t meet page.
Inspirations are everywhere. Two strangers betting a flask of whiskey on a chess match. A basketball team sized protest rhyming grump and dump with Donald Trump. A guitarist picking away at dreams, one lunch break at a time.
I sit, pen touching paper.
Ink is not spilled.
My thoughts are stripped of temperament. My sight is stripped of sensation.
Then it happens. A pigeon flies overhead and shits on my shoulder. I laugh. My belly jiggles. My nose snorts.