Penny in the river

I dropped a penny in the river, back in the days I lived in New York. The idea came from a song by Ike and Tina Turner. Im Blue shoobedoobe. I could not sleep. I could not sleep in rooms of spilt gypsy rose wine. Not when I was remembering the wind and wondering was it a friend. But there was no wind in the city. And I lived in an underworld there, unable to act. Frying my brain in August. City that consists of well-placed pretensions. I read the papers and bopped around too. I had entered the island sanatorium. At the Mercer saw Ahmet Ertegun with Jackie Kennedy on his arm. And thought: This is a dangerous time for those not chauffeured. Cause it was a city of strange phantoms. Tic Tic Tic. My brain was cogitating. Addicted were the people of night – mugs, zombies, appearing in their time. Walking down the street was cause for alarm. You had to be there. You must remember this: think of your eyes as you look at the police. You will scurry to the door with its periscope eye hole when you hear the bump in the hall. You omnivorously eye the streets you walk and, dexterous, never fumble for door keys. The violence is in the papers. It stalks you peripherally. When you are in the club you are safe for an hour. The penny in the river is dated 1972.