Washington in the summertime: ladies' legs as far as the eye can see. I ain't mad at ya. Metro train gradually fills with suits and skirts. Young gay guy, annoyed at the disheveled proximity. Obvious Jews and those hidden, a brown skinned woman with round features and a subtle necklace pendant engraved with a seven-branched candlestick. Fabulous and fancy, men wearing cologne. If my earbuds weren't pumping Robin Thicke I'd hear four different languages, only two I can identify.
I scoot around slow moving tourists. Not mad at you either. No I'm just getting my adrenaline pumping with a brief jog in flipflops. I'm excited. I grin widely, splitting my cheeks, and just make every connection I need. Effort combined with luck will get me on my way, and keep me as I go. G-d bless.
This is D.C., so varied that I am only one of many brightly colored comments. Mine is not the only head bobbing to personal music, there's a blonde and a dude with twists who's pounding out beats on the hand grip bar.
My city. It accepted me and I took it. A little too buttoned up for most bohemians but a few still camp out here. A little too lefty for the uber-suited, but they've got plans. The grand machinery grinds here. I heard it every night when I slept in the underbelly of Capital Hill, down in the moisture with the bugs.
Here I start, reborn as myself, having found my feet, my root religion. From here I start, going back to Tulsa to meet my past -- the one I left but didn't mean to.
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