Borough Hall in the fog

On this late Thursday afternoon, in skin-prickling fog, I walked to 225 Cadman Plaza East, to see where I need to be tomorrow morning to become an American. I have this waking nightmare that I forget to go at all, or can't find it. But I found it. It's close to home.

Is this where we come to be citizens? I asked the armed guard at the Xray machine in the light- filled oval lobby.

Yes, it is, sweetheart, he smiled.

Walking back, in the wet, my hair curling with moisture, I passed a homeless man feeding pigeons. He threw bread ahead of me as I walked, and I was escorted by clouds of wings and moving air. I don't mind pigeons, and I understand why people feed them. They are their friends.

The market on a Thursday. Not sure I knew. Small strawberries! I bought them.

Bought a bunch of the white onions. Beautiful potatoes, but I had some at home: I was going to make - and it's bubbling on the stove now - chicken curry for supper.

The old lavender and rose and boxwood trick in front of Borough Hall. It's pretty. I'd like to jump the fence to picnic, though. The plastic edging and massive bark chip mulch tend to distract, but right now this little park is looking very good and well-groomed.

It feels like Saturday on a Thursday. Thursday's child has far to go.

I'm not quite there yet.

Dis nie die pyn nie, maar O, die dors...

Oh. I ate the little strawberries in one sitting, straight from the box.