ROB COOK
The Lord of New York commands the Thursday night inebriation from his tagged ledges and windows in a building that is mostly the sound of taxis done in by red lights that don’t end. On the day he lets the rain back into his limp, he will eat chicken bone dinners with others who’ve given up their names. Today he took his coat to meet another coat in Elizabeth, New Jersey and was not kidnapped. Today he returned as a smile only—no flesh, no cop bulletin, no one wanted alive. He’s learned everything about his apartmenthow much sunlight costs when it grazes the curtains, or when it goes missing in the walls, the mirror, the cupboards, the moths birthing in each of its nails. He climbs the stairs to the roof and traps clouds with Mr. Bilik and Mr. Cap. Tonight they vote on a maintenance committee. Tonight they inform on each other. Tonight they curse with their beat-up fingers. Raleigh Review | 37