Nuggets of New York

I am thinking now of the Italian joint on Restaurant Row, in the city of right angles and tough, damaged people.

I stole that line from Pete Hamill, so you know I'm talking about New York. The City. Manhattan.

We were there on a cold and clear Tuesday in February. The sommelier brought his list, but I knew I wanted Pinot. And ravioli. And garlic.

The service was superb, as it must be, and the food was fine. I can remember the two women, out for the evening perhaps, and the man in the black coat and the child who didn't chatter.

I have forgotten the conversation. But I want to go back. I want to feel the pulse of the pavement, the staccato of the sidewalk, the rhythm of the ride.

I want to see James Earl Jones "Driving Miss Daisy." I want to awaken in Times Square and sip an espresso at the cheesecake factory. I want to buy a Daily News from the guy behind the glass and hope that Denis Hamill has written today about the borough of Brooklyn.

I want to give my regards to Broadway and remember me to Herald Square. I want to hum "Harlem Nocturne" as the sun slumbers. I want to fall asleep in my room at the Milford and dream of the day to come.

I want to do a lot of things, but instead here I sit, in my chair, living vicariously through the poet's pen, dreaming of the Italian joint on Restaurant Row, in Pete Hamill's city of right angles and tough, damaged people.