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. 


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

blondes rampant

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)

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  • John Salonich
    commented 2017-04-06 13:49:56 -0400
    What a neat idea to loosely document others conversations so succinctly.