What can YOU say in six sentences?
I drink coffee outside my hotel room, looking up at the faded green building with white trim that rises into the sky, and I am not from here, not from this place of noise and crush.
I wonder who lives in the rooms, in the skyscrapers full of people, wonder about those who live above the streets, what kind of sheets and do they soak in hot baths or ever smell of sweat and dirt?
I can see their crystal and hear their clear music and smell the lemon oil on their gleaming tables and taste the pizza with pesto from the sidewalk cafe, feel the heat of coffee in a cardboard cup.
But as they sleep above the sirens, do they dream of heavy ceramic mugs and days at home with sundried laundry and bright scrambled eggs, a day in socked feet and no brisk sidewalks, a day of Scrabble and naps?
How do they find dirt for their plants or an earthworm or a snail or a bat or a garter snake for decoration?
Where do their bees drink?