Here’s what I managed to come up with:
Beneath the elevated tracks in Harlem, dodging gypsy cabs and potholes, I am Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle on a folding bicycle.
I look as ridiculous as it sounds, with my wide, six-foot-two frame and burgeoning beer belly — my sleeker rides sit idly at home, barred from the commuter train.
Chasing the French Connection I am not, only my drab cubicle on the 41st floor, yet the imagination persists, flourishes.
Like clockwork there’s Polish Pete on the corner of 114th, a rough-hewn iron worker on his union-mandated smoke break. I ask, “you ever pick your feet in Poughkeepsie?”
He stares back, blankly.