The radiators sing like snakes as a cardboard Halloween pumpkin wobbles and smiles against the cold living room window. I walk downstairs to my favorite corner café for an iced coffee at a round metal table armored in aging mosaic. My diary sits silently in my apartment and so I have no one to talk with except ideas for a new song I plan on writing for my mermaid. Every morning spent in New York City, conceiving songs, kissing the changing seasons, breathing my dreams, scheming like a criminal, is a great achievement. If you aren’t in love with it, it isn’t home.
©2013 MARC McBarron Kessler