At the pool, where I have found myself regularly after work, is a sign that enigmatically states, “Pool Capacity 541.” Every day for months, I have formulated the question, capacity for what?

X: I think we’re early.

Y: I think we’re late. How do you know we’re early?

I am in a love and hate relationship with this city. New York gets beautiful sunsets that nobody sees or knows about. Residents ask themselves daily why they inhabit this burly brimming ship and find solace in watching the flickering tourists from Baton Rouge—who would have loved to dress, walk, and spend like splendid New Yorkers. But I love Manhattan because it’s an island that least resembles an island, and because it was traded for goods equaling a meager 24 dollars—about the price of a modest entrée in a tiny Greenwich gourmet.

Here I am, turning in my office chair, in another 9×5x5 day, working for a good cause that amounts to a day spent in front of the computer. Being raised in plenty, my ambitions are not those of my parents. Everyday I seek a meaning to life. Being married takes the edge off the quest, for if I have no anwers at the end of the day, at least my purpose is to be home.

For a man who wasn’t crazy about hats, Arthur Arlan, or as I called him, Poppa Arthur, tended to wear a lot of them — as a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, friend, mentor, neighbor, chef, well…you get the idea.

Sometimes the chain-link fence keeping-in the ivy
of your home, with bright posters on each wall
has more to do with information, with the way
faux-taut helices of metal and rust can be understood
not in-themselves, but in-how-you-might-hope-to-use-them.

A couple months ago while at work, I received an email from my sister with a link to an article about “Monkids.” Intrigued by the title, I opened my browser to a fascinating story about empty nesters who deeply missed their children. As the obvious solution, they adopted monkeys, whom they lovingly refer to as monkids.

how (much betterwetter) can i
aim to want to
please you
picture perfect
you.

Rajastan is the part of India that you see in coloring books. It’s bright and broadly drawn, immediate and jubilant. It’s where florid jungle forests cradle castles built above baby blue lakes and men who are mostly mustached dance on endless, fluffy blankets of crème colored desert. It’s the India with helpful elephants and lonely tiger cubs and monkeys that try to wear your hat. It is the India you want to curl up and snuggle with.

I met Nelly Leano in the copy room at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. She was wearing a matching blue outfit and making lots of copies with the help of Noemi, the Chilean receptionist and general go-to woman. I was making one copy, and eavesdropping, trying to follow their rapid Spanish.