I think: this is what it would be like if I lived here, walking home with my keys in my hand, self-assured and calm at the thought of my destination, cheap sandals from the cheap salon slap-slap-slapping against my feet. I would be used to this sweat, this heat; I would know where to find the best tacos, the best coffee, the best cannoli. I would go to the park at sunset and run, or at sunrise, or before, or after. I would not be afraid. A dead rat, not a problem, I’ve seen it a million times. I cross the street here, or here, but not here. I know what is coming. Just try to make eye contact with me behind my sunglasses, just try to make me move first out of a crowded aisle of shoppers. What do you need to know, to know I belong here? I will turn into one of the timeless women, leathered and laughing, sitting on a stoop with a burning cigarette chopsticked in between my fingers. I will coo at your baby when you stroll by, as the monk parakeets swoop and twirl, chattering all the way back to the graves.
The Wandering Introvert 