Nothing You Can’t Do

June hears them first and pulls us into the square.

“Welcome to New York, Welcome to New York!” Two dozen big gay voices.

This is exactly why I moved to the Castro at twenty, and bought in the West Village at fifty. Freedom, like singing, comes from the drawing of breath.

Michael arrives for Empire State of Mind. We played it at our wedding.

He whoops for the top-knotted soloist, but I catch him eyeballing a hard-looking white-boy taking pictures outside the fence. He’s worried about an alt-right assault, I know it.

Dance with your daughter, McCormick. Fill your lungs.

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