Where Camel Park on Amsterdam and 101 street is empty at 2 pm because all the children in the neighborhood are napping except one small boy whose mother pushes him on the swing—time stretches out—and the swing groans its own call and response: eee--ohhh, eee-ohhh, eee-ohhh.

Where a hard rain rebounds against the avenue making the darkened concrete look prickled with goosebumps.

Where the sky over the Westside Highway is the color of an X-ray slide without a light-box.

Where the lunar mission is all set to go but three men are down.

Where, on the corner of 55th and 6th at 7 pm, an off-duty driver watches a woman and her son wait for 25 minutes in the freezing cold for a taxi, a livery car, anything warm with wheels, and when three young, female tourists sidle by, snuffs out his second cigarette, opens the door for them, and flicks on his light.

Where every man and boy smile wistfully, but the women look suspicious or skeptical and one woman barks, "Jacket!" as young Batman singing NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA... rides by.

Where the city, after a few days of rain, is as clean as it can get.