Under DUMBO light, spoon in pocket

This morning Arthur Russell spun while the kettle clicked—little pops like subway tracks. Held the bronze spoon in my pocket and let the static steady the quickness in my chest when a man with paint-smudged sleeves paused at the window and let the light make his shoulder honest.

Lights stay off in the studio; acid pens glow like small conspiracies and my hands trace a new monogram that remembers each landed foot. If you wander past DUMBO with a jacket that folds familiar at the shoulder, chances are I'll map it into the next sketch—quiet, pleased, already remembering.