I’m not sure about the Lincoln Tunnel, a tile here, tile there picked clean off the wall. 

I’m not sure about drinking from the first glass of water you get in that too busy coffee shop on the corner of Fifth Street and Second Avenue. It comes straight to your table from a cloudy glass and lunch tray tower that’s been standing behind the counter all day.

I’m not sure about taking The New York Times off the top of the stack outside the newsstand. 

I’m not sure just how clean the toilet is in a house where everyone is so organic they don’t use Lestoil to wash the floor.

But I’m really not sure that when I step down, the sidewalk will meet my feet. I’m not sure. I’ve got a history in this city.