Driving back to our house from Manhattan after a good day and a great show and muskrat love starts playing on the radio and we all listen to it and I am writing postcards and just a little amazed by how little it takes to make perfection.
Like pink balloons adorning the front porch of a house in suburban new york, or cobwebs on the window sill at Junior's cafe off Broadway, trapping the last rays of the five o clock sun while I'm into my third spoon of devil's food cheesecake already and outside a young man speeds by on his mobike with his girlfriend's laughter hanging in the air like white linen on a clothesline in harlem.
Like a crisp sheet of white paper.
Like a full house.
Like a standing ovation.
Like music and beauty, intricately entwined. And quietly heartbreaking.
Like acorns and fire hydrants whizzing past on the highway as meatloaf starts playing on my ipod.
Like a single dewdrop on a thin blade of glass.
Like a thin blade of grass.
Like a sunday in Manhattan.