The city purrs, it hums along, the morning hardly risen. A well-dressed drunk smears her finger across a doormanâ€™s lips and whispers. Someone stumbles. Someone curses. Someone hoses down the pavement. We must have made a mess of things again, all fuzzy black and white and greenish at the corners. Some final thing that put us in our places. Youâ€™re still standing in your winter coat alongside everything you wanted and deserve. But you were thinner. The desk clerk looked right through you. The cabby didnâ€™t listen. You were out of sorts back then, you say, but youâ€™re still frowning! In vain a shrieking siren repeats itself and fades. The quiet idles there, a crosswalk signal chirping. Youâ€™re still standing in your winter coat, but I donâ€™t know you. Someone scrambles down a fire escape, his shirt a flag thatâ€™s shredded. A boy salutes. And then his mother, too. She stoops to smooth his collar. She makes a sculpture of her packages. Youâ€™re a different person now, you say, but you will never happen.