Albany

It’s how I see myself surviving, 
wandering downtown near a dirty corner 
where I used to work in the building 
with the print shop in the back, 
Vinny’s sub shop still open in front. 
It’s on a hill in what might have been 
long ago a hot part of the city, 
with speakeasys and singing on the street 
on the ground floor of tenements 
that are now half-boarded-up, 
with holes for doorways. 
I’ll get scraps of food 
from the arabs’ chicken place 
on the bottom of the hill, eat it slowly, 
and leave still hungry and thirsty. 
I’ll be dressed cleanly, 
in a blue raincoat that 
my wife once gave me and 
I have never worn, and in khakis 
that are like new, 
and in hush-puppies and thin white socks. 
I’d never have truly lived here, 
and I’ll never leave, 
I’ll breathe and walk 
and wander around downtown, 
not really lost, you can’t get lost 
in this city, but looking like I’ve lost something, 
maybe my step, my anger, my deeper breaths, 
my love of colors, something that was lively and loud, 
but now quietly, sweetly I’ll be looking here 
and there with little conviction 
for this gray old place.