Times Square at night, Jorge Roy­an, 2012


Today in the taxi a pas­sen­ger got in and she was cry­ing. I don’t know why. We left Asto­ria for Williams­burg. I gave her a lit­tle pack­age of tis­sues and she went on her way.

Kaf­ka said cry­ing is espe­cial­ly alarm­ing for me. I can­not cry. When oth­er peo­ple cry, it seems to me like a strange, incom­pre­hen­si­ble nat­ur­al phenomenon.

I thought maybe she was going through a breakup, or per­haps it was a pas­sage in a novel.

Some peo­ple think of Williams­burg as the hip­ster apoc­a­lypse” and oth­ers, the Ortho­dox, know the Lord is there with them. She’s push­ing a shop­ping cart full of plas­tic bot­tles res­cued from trash cans.

Cry­ing lit­er­al­ly means to ask for loud­ly.” She mum­bles through a drop of salt­wa­ter, but She’s real­ly say­ing: You are wor­thy of ask­ing and hav­ing your ques­tion heard.

Sean Singer was born in Guadala­jara, Jalis­co, Mex­i­co, in 1974. A for­mer New York City taxi dri­ver, he has an MFA from Wash­ing­ton Uni­ver­si­ty in St. Louis and a Ph.D. in Amer­i­can Stud­ies from Rut­gers Uni­ver­si­ty-Newark, and has been award­ed a fel­low­ship from the Nation­al Endow­ment for the Arts. Singer is the author of two pri­or col­lec­tions of poet­ry: Hon­ey & Smoke and Discog­ra­phy, which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize and the Nor­ma Far­ber First Book Award from the Poet­ry Soci­ety of Amer­i­ca. He offers edi­to­r­i­al ser­vices at seansinger​po​et​ry​.com.