Conditioning is you
looking down Seventh Avenue
at 4am:
the dawn sky
a plum cracked
and pushed into itself.
*
Conditioning is the man
hosing down the sidewalk
before the sporting goods store
opens, the trash and papers turned
rags, the cans and plastic bags
turned squalid gems, rushed
to the curb and falling
in a hurl
of green-black water.
*
Conditioning is the woman
who stands in a puddle
stopping to see if the man
with the hose will stop,
and when he doesn’t,
proceeds to walk into the street.
*
Conditioning is thinking the men
asleep under the stairway,
garbage bag for a shared pillow,
have bodies like fallen dolls.
*
Conditioning is the group of men
in uniforms with Window Unit
on the back,
and you thinking them
truculent as children
ready to hit something.
*
Conditioning is the woman crouching
over a broken stiletto,
and the man with a hand
on her back saying:
It’s ok—spit
against his lips
like foam at the farthest reach of a wave
you were just reading about
on the train.
*
Conditioning is the walk to work
where you look up to Hermes
above Grand Central
his hands frozen mid-wave
as if forever casting a spell
over everything that moves.
*
Conditioning is the voice
you still hear asking:
Who the fuck is you?