How I Feel, Tilda, 930 Fulton Street, Brooklyn, NY


all there is


Tilda, you on the corner of Fulton were all there is.

Smiles from behind the bar travel fast here, like their miles per hour is at the speed of light.

Tilda, you, with your tiled floors, parsnip benches and tables are an invitation, to sit like the human family we all are.

There was the taste of the day, chilled like a beverage that’s kicked back with ice cubes nearly as big as its volume, you know, those ones that seem to never melt so as not to dilute reality.

All there is, is an impression, in real life that had me actually standing inside you, reading Americanah, playing spoons, watching seats become deserted only to be filled again as soon as it’s last tenants residuals were wiped away.

You remind me that love notes are still important and possible,  as I stood on your floors and watched the sun decide not to come, through the northern windowsjust yet.

All there is: avocado slices – four – and lemon playing second base. A flat white rimmed in a cousin palette of brown sugar and flecked cinnamon, tasting like mango before its overripe and baked pluots. Can pluots be baked?

Clanking clanking clanking – old jars hitting tables as if out of tune and billows of steam from the bar and the upper and lower of my mouth which you could have if you forgot about that in real life it’s rather cold – 27 degrees and it for heated hands and a billow or two of steam coming from your mouth as you take it as it is : hot.

You sit there, and I loiter with my heart and remember that this is what real life exploration is, not a click of a mouse or the experience of another but  mine, here in this seat, with the sounds that might as well be my own podcast where memory pushed record.


And memory, is all there is. Tilda