So you turned 30.
It crept on you almost unnoticeably while you swooshed down Jefferson on a bike.
You turned 30 while you were smashed against some six bodies in the 8:30 a.m. L train. You turned 30 while like Ulysses you roamed from Alaska to The Johnson’s. You turned 30 while an airborne droplet of your sweat vanished to steam before it touched a melting roof on a Bushwick summer afternoon.






