200 East 57th Street

200 East 57th Street

There is a place in my memories that seems real today.

My grandparents’ apartment on 57th Street

And a golden yellow couch where I slept during my stays.

I would stay awake at night intoxicated by all of 2nd Avenue,

The sounds of car horns and life throughout the night.

The glow of the movie marquee and the street lights.

The shops with neon glow and

The store mannequins standing guard.

Then there was the distant sound of snoring

From behind the door to my Grandpa’s room.

I would lie there for a while listening to the sounds of the city

Then walk around the apartment looking at the artifacts,

Objects from around the world and hundreds of cows

Or stare at portraits of my mother, aunt and uncle

Wondering what they were like when they were young.

This place was my happy place and always filled with love.

Waiting for the hourly chime of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

Soon it would be light and everyone would be awake

And

When morning time came with Grandma’s call to “Winton”

And a bark from Bourbon the gray poodle made it

Time for Grandpa to walk the dog on his kingly parade

And I would walk with Grandma to Dover to get breakfast.

The city so clean on Sunday morning and so busy

Across to Lex and back in time to ride back up with the dog.

A quick breakfast made in a closet-sized kitchen

And eaten on the grand dinner table.

The time I had was so short with them

But every moment stays etched in my mind.

And every visit ended in tears and the promise of

Another night in Manhattan.