The First Thursday in September
I stop in Bryant Park and watch the men
playing ping pong at 10:30 at night on a Thursday.
They bring their own paddles and balls–
they’re serious. Over where the grass usually is
other men are busy. They set up a tent.
Maybe for Fashion Week. I guess for Fashion Week.
I forget it’s Fall, unofficially, considering Labor Day.
I only stop in hopes one of the men will invite me to play,
but after I try and fail to catch a stray ball
that flies near my head and one of the men says, “Good try,”
(in a way that makes me think he found it endearing that
I’d even attempted as it was obviously futile considering
my vagina) I walk off.
In line for the public restroom the two women behind me
talk about a bartender–
“You should totally marry him.” “Yeah,” the other one nods.
She describes the way he peers into her eyes over the bar
as she orders: “Intense.” They nod.
“He’s dreamy.” “Yes, dreamy. That’s
a good way to describe him.”
A door opens and a person emerges.
It’s my turn and I take a piss.