An iPod bubble

Oh you West Village girls - that luscious wave of you that pours through a cafe door.

A silent waft of grandeur. August beauty drifting forth. A paragon of splendor cascading in between those ears.

Those delicate little ears peer so deftly from winter hats or wind-strewm tufts of hair, fortressing all the scary exterior. So cute: nymphs of sound, bouncing lightly from step to step - spritely dances across platforms.

Where are you going? Where do I find you? How can I tell?

Bars, restaurants and subway exits - always falling through some crack, the sinking suspicion of indiscretion. There is no propped up unawareness then. No music between those silly little radars that make a lady's face so adorably red. Pink cheeked and clenching to strong armed crutches - strong jawed and well dressed, they make for good dressing.

Nothing but the best for you, in those bland hours in between the maddening responsibility. A tossed gladrag, a stained cheek, a strewn thong - those tasteless morsels of nurture. But on the street these modern antiques are unheard.

There is so often, in the day, a time to pause, and reflect, and consider all that is possible. So frequently the day is a screaming silence between the ears of a girl where she pauses and reflects and considers the only thing that matters to her.