The List

I made a list of things I want to put in my new apartment
The what-would-I-always-want-for-all-reasons-occasions
It starts with "ice cube trays"
Followed by "record player"
It's not a wish list, but more of a checklist
There's "small bar" on there
And "mop"
More than anything, I want to make a space
That I can feel wrapped and rapt in
The place that is home
This entire journey began 19 months ago
On Mercer Street, between Bleecker and West 3rd St.
Where I had my life completely flipped upside down
Where I paused, looked around to soak it in
And watch as the Pit in My Stomach,
Now completely unnecessary
Was regrettably handed his pink slip
And Evaporated.

You don't need a Pit in your stomach
About moving South, about uprooting and leaving
About desperate attempts to change someone's mind
That had already made her mind up
When she drops you like a bag of potatoes.
The Pit, as redundant as the office worker
Absorbed in the merger
Who's counterpart in the existing company
Already does her job.

You don't need a Pit
When you look around
To see the indifferent faces of NYU students
And realize that very few people give a damn about this
And while you are loved by so many
thankful for this
You and you alone must wipe off the dust from the boots
And take the next step.

There is no Pit
When you call your sister
Your Mother
Your Father
Your friend Ann
And you break it to them
That you lost her
And you probably didn't have to
If you had only bothered to at least
Entertain the idea
Of talking about the Future
And formulate a plan
To move up and onward.

You don't need a Pit
When you start rationalizing to others and yourself
That it ALL had to do with WHAT you do for a living
And a salary line
Even when you cringe each time you verbalize it
Knowing that it's bullshit.
But when the lines go silent afterwards
What else is one to think?

There's no Pit
When you can't eat
Taste buds dead and decayed
Nothing ruins the taste of peanut butter
Than unrequited love, Charlie Brown.

There's no Pit
When you do indeed take that one step forward
And another
And another
And the finality of the situation
Provides this peace and serenity
The cabs and walkers all return to slow motion
And you hit shuffle
Dig the inner earphones deep
And the choreography that is New York, NY
Commences.

There's no Pit
When there's nothing at stake anymore.

At the bottom of my list
The what-would-I-always-want-for-all-reasons-occasions
I have now written
"Grown Up"
It's immediately preceded by
"Xbox"
Fair enough.