Home sickness has. Overwhelmed me. I want to. Eat a street vendor falafel and. Take the subway to Soho. I miss the sweet honesty of. New York City. I miss the beauty in her people. Tired of the locals in this place. Mispronouncing my. Last name. And looking at me cross eyed. Trying to acertain my ethnicity. I miss the city that. Never sleeps. I miss the place where. Everyone treats me like family.
And perhaps my recollection is. Skewed from years somewhere else. But I have grown weary of the. Weak mentality and. Dimunitive stance. Tired of the. Passive aggressive nature of this. Place and these. People.
Missing the humidity and. Air conditioned necessity. Garbage overflowing in alleys and the stench rising. Enough to make you want to vomit. On an August afternoon. And wind. Chill factor like people huddled together but at least we. Have something to complain about.
I want to purchase paprika from Szeged and. Tokaji (five puttonyos) at the Hungarian store owned by the. Refugee couple who. Immigrated rather escaped in. 1956. I miss cannoli from the bakery around the corner any. Bakery around any. Corner and you can find it. I miss cannoli even. Though I was never a fan of. It because I cannot seem to. Find it here.
I miss. Meeting the eyes of pedestrians with a nod and. Good morning. Rather than head down. Eyes shifted away everyone. Seems afraid in this. Place. Afraid to be. Honest with themselves honest. With each other and I fear that I have. Been here too long and. Have adopted something similar for myself.
Mouring the loss of my. East coast. Attitude and waking up to the smell of. Good old fashioned diner coffee black as. Tar needing more sugar than. You could imagine to. Choke down. Hoping to find my. Self under the cushion of a. Chair or in my. Sock drawer.
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