#artistic persistence

You would know a finger rests on New York’s lips when Pam plays hopscotch on the crosswalk. She usually does it on our way to the open mic. We’ve been at it for quite some time now, waiting for a publishing agent bored out of her skull to wander into the café, hear us spit our little wounded poems, and turn us into overnight sensations. After gorging on Big Mac Meals day in and day out, though,…