it will not pass quickly enough by Ranina Simon

Poetry Editor Ranina Simon shares a poem about wishing to belong (to a city; to a person) as easily as two old Chinese fishermen.

your youth betrays you

doe-eyed in someone else’s coat

breaking your thousand-yard sulk 

for the men who have crossed this bridge more times 

than the express trains

so while you play chicken with everyone’s footsteps

daring the runners to shove your back

into the east river

they’ve inhaled enough of the churn to match 

your drowning gasp

on their four-limbed commute

(two wheels, two legs)

over the floor that’s more river than floor

past the railing getting strangled by some brooklyn wind 

the wheeled one pedaling a languid stroll

the legged one walking with spokes for shins

remember that this water’s mostly salt 

as you inspect their passing haul

(four poles, no fish)

you’ll feel one step closer to the spray lapping 

at the bottoms of your boots 

when the high tide swells in your eyes 

because his hat tilts the same angle as 

his hat

over liver spots

and his hands clutch the handlebars the same way 

his hands 

wield the poles 

and he could burn a trail down the grates 

switch a gear and let the skyline blur

the clouds get caught in his crow’s feet

the air roaring with the waves

but you’re crying because he won’t 

and the river infects you like you wish the city would 

each gray hair bleached in a dollar’s worth 

of soy sauce and pizza grease 

holes torn in jacket pocket seams

loose change tumbling

(three quarters, two dimes

the pennies multiplying)

until the floor stops rumbling 

because the men have reached solid ground 

at their snail’s pace 

an arm’s length 

the same time 

to keep their line of conversation slack

their bloodless hooks waving goodbye

to your dry, stoic back.