muppets do not live here
Or [cue Jaws music] building owners.
I will miss the little Mexican hole in the wall restaurant where the guys all know I get either the number eight or the number ten. The lady at the magazine rack with the bleached–white–white hair who always wears interesting hats and cowboy boots when it rains. And always smiles when I walk by and says, There she goes with her Cokes. The lady at the post office who is delicate like a bird and sometimes has her gray hair [her face is too young for this hair] in pigtails and always talks to people too much when there is a long line except she is so nice you cannot get mad about it. My favorite Sushi restaurant where I do not eat sushi I eat teriyaki [unless Stil makes me eat raw tuna] and they have two little tables outside where I can sit when I step out to have a smoke. The postman who is always happy and always smiles and knows which box is mine and when he sees me coming stops sorting and looks for my netflix arrivals so he can give them to me first. The building maintenance man who drove his truck all the way across town one night to open my door so I did not have to call a locksmith — while his family was at a holiday picnic. The Asian man with silver hair and a stone face who runs the corner shop that sells smokes and cokes late who has a smile you do not see until he decides you are okay….
I have without meaning to learned to know and love pieces and faces of this place. There are no muppets. There are large men with weapons and bad habits and too loud music and coughs and I know why it takes that Asian man with silver hair so long to smile. But there are corners of this place I have grown to know — and in a way love.
I have been a lot of places.
These are the things I take with me when I go.