"All In A New York Minute," a poem by Jess Coffman

All in A New York Minute,

I'm thrust out of my own head. 

The familiar sound of a street performer,

asking for energy and attention,
that is stretched so thin in 

New York City. 

All in A New York Minute,

The familiar chords of a love lament sounds, 

on the otherwise silent train full of
pre-rush hour travelers.

Though lucky for him, and me, 

the aisles are clear. 

Distracted by a song I love, 

I turn away from the map, 

From the stress of my lateness,

From the stress of my lovelessness. 

His skin is "black," his shirt is black.

He moves with a strength and weakness, 

in perfect likeness, to that which is imbued 

in the song of lost love. 

All in A New York Minute, 

I'm transfixed in his movement, 

so aggressive and yet so fluid.

His "popping and locking" within and against
the backdrop of the rocking train.
Entrancing. 

His balance exquisite, 

the sun casting playful shadows on his ever-focused face.

Eyes downcast, asking nothing more. 

He quietly mouths a few lyrics, accenting his dance.

I want to cry as my heart swells for his art, 

for his tension and release.

All in A New York Minute, 

I'm given a gift that makes my life. 

My guard drops, and My heart opens to My fellow man, 

My fellow mover through space.

I give him 4 dollars and tell him, 

"This is what is great about New York City."

But it in no way, does it adequately express my gratitude 

for causing my invisible veil of callous to disappear, 

for A New York Minute. 

All in A New York Minute,

I swell and fall, 

In joy and sadness. 

These moments sneak up on you here,

And are easily missed in a city 

Overwhelmed with people living on top of one another, 

Holding their tongues.

We're all a bit too tired and weather whipped. 

All in A New York Minute,

I vow to change one of my worst behaviors...a lack of respect for time. 

Tardiness is inadvertently irreverent to whomever
you are promised to. 

But in this instance, had my timing been different, 

the white rose of my innermost being 

would not be in bloom right now. 

I breathe in the aroma of this gift, 

Keeping my lungs full as long as possible, 

knowing that my exhale corresponds directly to the end of this life-giving experience. 

But holding on would be a misuse of the gift. 

Time doesn't judge or have patience,

it simply carries on. 

All in A New York Minute, 

I hold the weight of this beauty in my hands,
and watch it disappear. 

Leaving me in communion, 

with hands cupped in anticipation 
for the next opportunity

to be One within myself, One with the living, 
One with God. 

JESS COFFMAN

Friends,

I'm so thrilled to share this poem. I actually had this experience a few weeks ago while traveling between the 36th Avenue and Queensboro Plaza stops in Astoria, on the N train. I was on my way to a friend's improv. show, totally running late, and feeling terrible about it. I was searching the map on the train, stressing and trying to figure out how to get to an area of town I was unfamiliar with. It was about 4:00pm on a Friday, so the train was relatively empty going into Manhattan. As I was looking at the map, I heard the song "Stay" by Rhianna begin to play. I love that song, and though the music filled the train, it wasn't overwhelmingly loud. I looked over to see this beautiful man begin to dance in a style that I could never even attempt to imitate. It was "urban," the movement all about tension and release. The man looked down the whole time, it seemed as though to not to ask aggressively for our attention. But I gave him my undivided attention and smile. I couldn't help it. He was so captivating, dancing in his own style, mouthing a few meaningful lyrics here and there. The strength and weakness of the movement matched the evocative feel of the song, and gave me an insight into what is perhaps challenging in this man's life. I was moved most of all by his candid artistic expression, and his ability to remain composed and balanced as the train rocked significantly back and forth as he performed. He never wavered, he just danced, with such commitment, power and grace. 

The whole experience lasted about two minutes, but it truly changed my life. When we got to Queensboro Plaza, I gave the earnest dancer  $4.00, and like I said in the poem, I told him "This is what is great about New York City." He took the money somewhat gravely, and as he exited the train I wished I was in a position to give him so much more. I wished that I could give him a job or something else more significant to support him. He was utterly remarkable. His courage and movement were completely responsible that day, for causing me to drop the awful callous, that we build up unknowingly in New York City. Unfortunately, it builds back up rather quickly, but I am always so grateful for the people and experiences that cause my soul to bloom.  

I dedicate this poem to all of the street performers in New York City who play, dance, sing and inspire their fellow citizens. You are part of what makes this city great. 

Open, Earnest and Inspired,

Jess

(The sculptures in the above photos are part of an exhibit on display in the Rye Town Park in New York. They are the brilliant work of artists Joan Benefiel, Jeremy Leichman and Bob Cylatt. You can see the series of 6 sculptures on display in Rye Town Park until Nov. 1, 2015.)