Back to my senses (a poem)

Soup dumplings from “Real Kung Fu Little Steam Buns Ramen” in NYC on 48th & 8th

I want to...

see shades of skin, shining in low light
hear feet stomping and sliding, hands clapping
touch a stranger, be in closed position
smell sweat, moving bodies and minty breath

see leather pants, neon spotlights, tongue rings
hear pitchy notes and moments of real soul
touch hands reaching for the stage
smell beer, spilled on the microphone

see tatted arms tamping
hear milk steaming, friends saying sorry they’re late
touch my lips to a real fucking mug
smell beans, first earthy, then toasted
taste notes of bittersweet cocoa, toffee, and graham cracker

see stacked trays, steaming in a steamy room
hear too many conversations over tea, being poured for one another
smell hot air, salted and oily
taste dough, a burst of broth, then pork

see people, every kind of people, faces bright
hear ferry horns, engines revving, walk signals beeping
smell indian food, right next to pizza food
taste empanadas from the cart, or perhaps a lemonade

I want to...
dance with strangers
sing karaoke in a crowded bar
meet a friend for coffee
wait in long lines to eat soup dumplings
and walk in the city again — 

shoulder to shoulder.

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This is the first poem I’ve ever written that I wasn’t forced to write. Will probably be my last. I jotted it down one year into the pandemic, which started for us in Hell’s Kitchen NYC on March 12, 2020.

I had COVID early on. My short-term symptoms were mild, but I completely lost my sense of smell for almost a year. I couldn’t perceive a bottle of vinegar pressed up to my nostril and I burned A LOT of food.

When I wrote this poem, the vaccine was beginning to roll out and I was feeling a small sense of hope while trying not to binge-watch yet another tv show.

The poem is about all of my favorite things to do and I’m sharing it here so I never forget how it felt when the world stopped.