Robinson Walks Museum Mile

the ideal city building itself in his brain. Is this mile magnificent? He’s lived here a while, but the mile feels unreal. Robinson’s training himself to act blasé. Do museums amuse me? Yes, but not today. Would he like to be in one? Of course. Why not? An object of value with canvas wings, an unchanging face in a gilt frame, arranged— thoughtless, guilt-free, & preserved for eternity. Robinson doesn’t want to be exceptional. He knows he is. He wants to be perceived exceptional. Trains plunge by, steam rising from the grates. Sing, muse! of a man ill-met at the Met. A man on his lunch break, heading for a heartbreak, a break-up with Time. A break-up with time? Feeling filled with ice, the way you chill a glass, Robinson passes the National Academy. He craves a sense of belonging, not to always be longing. To be standing in a doorway, incredibly kissable, not waiting at the four-way, eminently missable. Is this mile magnanimous? He wants it unanimous: that this is his kind of town— up & down & including Brooklyn. The sky is clearing, but the isolation sticks. Robinson’s not sure what a camera obscura is for, but he thinks he should have his portrait done with one. Faces blur by as he heads toward the Frick. Something used to photograph the obscure.