we have to raise our voices
talking while we walk
through Monday night East Village.
The moon shines in slivers of a brown sky without stars
But the stores are full of sparkly costume jewellery
In Laura’s loft
even the floors tell stories,
each step a multitonal squeak .
There can be no secret movements in this place
Every trip to the bathroon is heralded by
the spongey floorboards
that bounce like a swingbridge
collecting my stories
to add to their anthology of travellers tales.