I Walk in Slow Motion Sunlight

by Nanette Rayman

I walked Madison and 42^nd at 9:00

I walked Lexington and 42^nd at 11:00

where conjunctivitis sunlight became a magnet

for my need to be the one thing

employers needed—I walked past magnificent

Grand Central Station, the snow a bouncing angora

eternal sweater. My one and only pair

of beautiful black boots their own magnet

for nascent splotches of salt stains.

I go on and on trying where other women

with jobs and Zara suits fill the tattered spaces

of this city that never sleeps, where I walk and walk

with all the hoodlums. On Avenue of the Americas I walk

near the banana stands and cheap dress shops, the snow’s

dissonance a blank etude across too many years.

It doesn’t stop, the desire to live, like ill sunlight, falling

through ticker tape news along 49^th Street, falling

through spastic limbs, falling into construction’s blue

grating.  Falling out of over-qualified typing tests.

They have become their own aspiration, those jealous women

with the power to hire, compelling my asphyxiation.

I can no longer think this pounding is worth it—I could die

now alone—even that yearning has no tempo to speak of.