Waiting on a friend for dinner in Manhattan the other day, I nursed a drink at the bar. In no more than thirty minutes, other patrons within earshot reminded me of how unique a city is New York, New York.
HOTEL BAR, MANHATTAN
They’re mentioning Tory and Morgan. Names suggestive of Sarah Lawrence
and Vassar. So I listen.
They're saluting positive resolution of their Century City issue.
There’s no crying in Syndication, the boss brags. He is wattled. Still,
his distaff staff congregates at his stool as if at Moses’ chair. Three
lissome bodies ascendant
tailored all in blackblackblack.
To my left more swell women flashing gold Amex cards
dissect retail and fabric and
Gyllenhaal and Ruffalo who are in previews this week.
Do I detect the dense scent of a Russian accent?
A clutch in from Chicago fresh from the carpeted concrete Javits floor
talk school bus schedules tornadoes power outages husbands. Big Ten.
And the bottles Oh God the bottles! A pellucid altar of sainted glass
ascending in tiered triptychs toward heaven’s vault while we worshippers
shrink in scale. Collectible netsuke from an East Village shop.
(Image: The Elephant Bar at the NoMad Hotel, Manhattan)