Throwing the apple of contention.

Throwing the apple of contention.
(The rain is coming down now.)
This weather doesn't exist in San Francisco, so lightly, I ignore the disapproval from passers by, of hot and sticky.
Prove to me I was what I am now,
reincarnation, sand blasted, and shinny new shoes. Manhattan is a sentence, and I'll tell you, there is no need for measure of life, worth, gain, or speed. I just go now. . Standing on the west side highway, lower, finer, the wind from the north, as it is in the summer and winter months, I'm moving forward like a boat, tighten the jib and always turn into the wind.
I've been hallucinating lately. due to exhaustion, and late night play on the wood rack. I'm a 2x4, lean as a fatty beam, not yet cured. How does one feel so strong, yet not yet served her purpose. I promise I'll talk to strangers, and mingle with the elves of this city, the assistant curator, the elf lounging on top the Onion News box, next to the news stand on 72nd. In mid day heat he promises me if I walk just one block west to the water it is cooler and I can escape. I admire is shade cooled river eyes and oversized grass hat. There are elves, and wood racks, and thick hot nights in this eastern city.
I've stayed just long enough to recognize myself, and discover the beauty and energy of being alone.
You look radiant tonight. Yes, it's true, I'm surrounded by ones I love, I play Monkey in the Middle.