This New Manhattan

I stagger to a stop, a car

gulping last fumes.

I have run twenty-one

undulating miles,

three-and-a-half loops

around Central Park.

My legs are springy,

compared to my first

long runs that shredded

my hamstrings like carrots

and completely broke me.

But I am not giddy.

I am like a sole survivor

of a crash in the Mojave,

enduring desert heat

on the long journey to

town. Before I can emote,

I need a drink and bed.

I inch toward the fountain

like an out-of-shape senior

and spot a man, like an oasis,

behind the vendor cart.

His jersey shouts pro

and I stare shamelessly.

I want to be a better biker,

do the Ironman triathlon.

He darts into the park on

roller blades. I’m wrecked:

not a cyclist, or triathlete—

a letdown, a mirage.

“What’s up, lesbian?” I hear.

I look back. A man shrugs.

Ahead, another touches his

toes. I blurt out to the first,

“Was he talking to me?”

A smile, another shrug.

My face painted with salt,

exhaustion, disillusion.

My hair, unkempt after

so many miles of sweating

and stuffing my pony tail

back to the base of my neck.

My shoes, gray nylon and suede,

comfortable classics old men

wear, like the white-haired man

who shuffles by in a pair.

I hobble home, bewildered,

lonely, missing the old Manhattan:

the homeless man, his red beard

and wine perfume, who slept

nights in our unlocked lobby;

the teenage crack dealer

who lived with his mother

upstairs; the garbage strike

and glorious anonymity.

But in this new Manhattan

a woman in men’s sneakers

with messy hair and serious

thoughts surely must be gay.

I should have said, “Not much.”

My Couch

I rest on my couch,

moss-green corduroy

with circular patterns

cut out—big loops,

big as dinner plates,

encircling curlicues and

squiggles in flaxen linen.

The cloth reminds me of

grass and dirt, green

with burned-out dust patches

that swirl like crop circles.

My couch, my mossy perch

with raw earth rings,

is my root, my foundation,

my resting place—

the seat from where

I look out at the world,

what I have known of it—

and create lines,

strings of words,

my tools, that become

poems, stories, my way

of seeing and being.

In my lap, my orange tabby

purrs, hogging space meant

for a notebook to rest.

She wants me, my warmth

and flesh, and cares less

for the couch or

what it does for me.

She hikes up my chest

and digs into my ribs

and breast, as inconvenient

as could be. Sometimes

I lay aside the notebook

and stoke her fur,

dense with molting hair,

embedded in my couch,

my sweater, my everything.

I look out the window,

peering between cream curtains,

and see the graying rear

of apartments across

the back alley,

a garden of concrete

without flowers or trees,

separating my building

from the stretch a block up—

a milk façade molded

shades of charcoal,

the way shower tiles

get when years go by

without cleaning.

Plants, I should own plants.

Pink geraniums,

or a crimson rose—

something to shield me

from the decaying view.

But that is not what

I see from my couch:

I see lime green Andes

dimpled with buttercups,

a man I adored trekking

up foothills with me,

fresh buds on magnolias

on a long run through

Central Park, contours

of the fine, gentle face

of permanent love.

It’s time we meet.

Thought I Was an Outsider

I wear cowboy boots and

flip flops—a New Yorker,

a Connecticut Yankee, but

my parents are Nebraskans.

and I’m an army brat, an Okie.

Played on an anthill in rust-red

dirt, got stung by a scorpion,

dug a hole to China—almost.

We had chickens, cats, a dog

and went to Grandfather’s ranch.

Grew up lonely in the east.

Didn’t have blue blood,

a trust fund, blond hair,

a Mercedes Benz. I drove

a vintage Dodge instead.

Was a diver, cocaptain of

the swim team with Sarah,

my best friend—a champion,

killed by a car before we left

for the same Ivy League.

My aunt lives with a woman.

Her son likes men and dances

like Grandmother did. Another

cousin—male—married a man

and was kicked out of the Navy.

My father fought in Vietnam.

My mother’s father flew

the Hump in World War II.

I was shelled in the Gulf War,

shocked on September 11.

Own a co-op near Central Park,

East Side. Have a brother, sister,

nephew. Had a cat, now gone,

and a husband, too. A bittersweet

story of war and thwarted love.

As a child, my mother taught

me to swim, my father to run.

Now I’ve raced marathons,

cycled centuries, finished

Ironman triathlons. A balm.

Believe in God and prayer,

but church—I rarely go.

Want to see every country,

write true words, find my

my best friend, marry him.

Thought I was an outsider,

an unlikely mix of things—

east and west, red and blue—

but now I see I’m not at all:

I am America. I am America.

Karol Neilsen

This New Manhattan

This New Manhattan

I stagger to a stop, a car

gulping last fumes.

I have run twenty-one

undulating miles,

three-and-a-half loops

around Central Park.

My legs are springy,

compared to my first

long runs that shredded

my hamstrings like carrots

and completely broke me.

But I am not giddy.

I am like a sole survivor

of a crash in the Mojave,

enduring desert heat

on the long journey to

town. Before I can emote,

I need a drink and bed.

I inch toward the fountain

like an out-of-shape senior

and spot a man, like an oasis,

behind the vendor cart.

His jersey shouts pro

and I stare shamelessly.

I want to be a better biker,

do the Ironman triathlon.

He darts into the park on

roller blades. I’m wrecked:

not a cyclist, or triathlete—

a letdown, a mirage.

“What’s up, lesbian?” I hear.

I look back. A man shrugs.

Ahead, another touches his

toes. I blurt out to the first,

“Was he talking to me?”

A smile, another shrug.

My face painted with salt,

exhaustion, disillusion.

My hair, unkempt after

so many miles of sweating

and stuffing my pony tail

back to the base of my neck.

My shoes, gray nylon and suede,

comfortable classics old men

wear, like the white-haired man

who shuffles by in a pair.

I hobble home, bewildered,

lonely, missing the old Manhattan:

the homeless man, his red beard

and wine perfume, who slept

nights in our unlocked lobby;

the teenage crack dealer

who lived with his mother

upstairs; the garbage strike

and glorious anonymity.

But in this new Manhattan

a woman in men’s sneakers

with messy hair and serious

thoughts surely must be gay.

I should have said, “Not much.”

My Couch

I rest on my couch,

moss-green corduroy

with circular patterns

cut out—big loops,

big as dinner plates,

encircling curlicues and

squiggles in flaxen linen.

The cloth reminds me of

grass and dirt, green

with burned-out dust patches

that swirl like crop circles.

My couch, my mossy perch

with raw earth rings,

is my root, my foundation,

my resting place—

the seat from where

I look out at the world,

what I have known of it—

and create lines,

strings of words,

my tools, that become

poems, stories, my way

of seeing and being.

In my lap, my orange tabby

purrs, hogging space meant

for a notebook to rest.

She wants me, my warmth

and flesh, and cares less

for the couch or

what it does for me.

She hikes up my chest

and digs into my ribs

and breast, as inconvenient

as could be. Sometimes

I lay aside the notebook

and stoke her fur,

dense with molting hair,

embedded in my couch,

my sweater, my everything.

I look out the window,

peering between cream curtains,

and see the graying rear

of apartments across

the back alley,

a garden of concrete

without flowers or trees,

separating my building

from the stretch a block up—

a milk façade molded

shades of charcoal,

the way shower tiles

get when years go by

without cleaning.

Plants, I should own plants.

Pink geraniums,

or a crimson rose—

something to shield me

from the decaying view.

But that is not what

I see from my couch:

I see lime green Andes

dimpled with buttercups,

a man I adored trekking

up foothills with me,

fresh buds on magnolias

on a long run through

Central Park, contours

of the fine, gentle face

of permanent love.

It’s time we meet.

Thought I Was an Outsider

I wear cowboy boots and

flip flops—a New Yorker,

a Connecticut Yankee, but

my parents are Nebraskans.

and I’m an army brat, an Okie.

Played on an anthill in rust-red

dirt, got stung by a scorpion,

dug a hole to China—almost.

We had chickens, cats, a dog

and went to Grandfather’s ranch.

Grew up lonely in the east.

Didn’t have blue blood,

a trust fund, blond hair,

a Mercedes Benz. I drove

a vintage Dodge instead.

Was a diver, cocaptain of

the swim team with Sarah,

my best friend—a champion,

killed by a car before we left

for the same Ivy League.

My aunt lives with a woman.

Her son likes men and dances

like Grandmother did. Another

cousin—male—married a man

and was kicked out of the Navy.

My father fought in Vietnam.

My mother’s father flew

the Hump in World War II.

I was shelled in the Gulf War,

shocked on September 11.

Own a co-op near Central Park,

East Side. Have a brother, sister,

nephew. Had a cat, now gone,

and a husband, too. A bittersweet

story of war and thwarted love.

As a child, my mother taught

me to swim, my father to run.

Now I’ve raced marathons,

cycled centuries, finished

Ironman triathlons. A balm.

Believe in God and prayer,

but church—I rarely go.

Want to see every country,

write true words, find my

my best friend, marry him.

Thought I was an outsider,

an unlikely mix of things—

east and west, red and blue—

but now I see I’m not at all:

I am America. I am America.

Karol Neilsen

This New Manhattan

Karol Neilsen is the author of the memoirs Raising the Price of the House, Walking A&P, and Black Elephants and three chapbooks. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem “This New Manhattan” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.