i wake late. walk thirty-six blocks just trying to feel tired again. joggers in too-tight red sweats rush up, dart around, turn back to face me huff huff huff. housewives with babies. housewives without babies. doctors and nurses who smoke; they sit legs-crossed on a sagging wooden bench, discuss colon cancer a tumor large enough to fill the entire lumen. street vendors begin their pitch: potato tacos, chopped pineapples, two dozen coconuts with pink straws shoved deep into their meat, the reddest of roses. nothing depends on season. every kind of luxury vehicle, parked in every two hour metered slot. the impossible wealth of the city never ceases to leave me slack-jawed. i walk until i somehow end up at the apartment again.