Hostess of 9 East 71st arrives in NYC

I love NYC, even the sidewalks.

I love rhapsodizing these sidewalks, singing about them.

H-E was with her mother and father, beside the Nebraska back alley way. Of corn fields. It was a straight road, and, had an asphalt surface. Not a concrete surface, meaning there was a sacrifice of certainty for the cost benefit of a little petroleum mixed with pebbles, gravel, here and there some sand…

But it works.

There’s no dust kicking up from asphalt, so that’s not one of asphalt’s faults.

It is a Greyhound bus H-E, her mother and father, await. They know it will be on time, and that’s why they collected here, ahead of time. This little way station, not a cross roads, and H-E, with her one suitcase, shaped like a briefcase, or a pocket, or a purse. A billiard pocket, the eight ball aimed at NYC.

We have to contend with this scene. A great, phenom of a beauty, a queen, not to say she isn’t a princess, from America’s Heartland, with her mom and dad, who, truth told, have contributed to her immaculate beauty, now send her off– on a humble bus. A bumble bus. Nebraska is cowboy country, thus. Cowgirl country, thus. H-E is hatless, and horseless. She boards. She swivels, she puts her seat in broken back position. Her feet swell. She smells the air. She directs the little nozzle, of air, the little nozzle, of reading light,

She’ll disembark in Grand Central Station, of which she has no notion.