Okay. So. Let me set the scene.
It’s a Tuesday night in SoHo — you know, faux-lost tourists with $900 cameras, that one girl playing the ukulele no one asked for, and street art that’s probably worth more than my rent. I’d just popped into this impossibly quirky little bookstore (complete with a cat named “Beats” and a barista who only listens to vinyl), when the universe decided to surprise me with… Jazz. Poetry. Snap-snapping strangers. And one very intense man named Zeke.
How It All Went Down
So there I am, just trying to be artsy and mysterious (but also cute — it’s New York, there’s always someone watching), when someone shouts, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got five more poets before open mic. Please stay seated.”
Wait, what?
I had no idea I’d walked into a live poetry night. I thought the candles, the mismatched chairs, and the faint scent of clove cigarettes were just for ambience. Suddenly, I’m clapping (or snapping?) along to a girl in combat boots reading a poem called "Beneath my Bluetooth Lies Pain." You guys. It rhymed… occasionally. And not where you’d expect it.
But here’s the thing: I stayed.
And then it happened.
Zeke, The Man, The Mood, The Muse
He walked up to the mic wearing a linen shirt, three buttons open, and these round glasses that said I read Proust but also probably made a mean turmeric latte on the side. He whispered, “This next one is called ‘Cherry Red Lipstick in a World of Beige Lies.’”
I gasped. Out loud.
Was it the poem? Was it the voice that felt like espresso and heartbreak? Was it hormones? Unclear. But I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I even stopped refreshing Instagram.
I was spellbound.
Afterward, I tried to play it cool by casually standing next to the table of complimentary biscotti (we love a free carb). Zeke came up to me and said, I kid you not:
“You have the energy of a woman accidentally powerful.”
W-H-A-T does that even mean? And why did I immediately want to get it tattooed on my ribcage?
Here’s What I Learned That Night:
- Saying “spilled ink” in a poem sends people into a frenzy. You’ll get like, five extra snaps.
- Berets are apparently back? And I’m okay with it.
- You never really know your type until someone reads sad poetry to a Miles Davis solo.
- New York will constantly surprise you. Especially when you stop looking for the surprises.
Zeke and I ended up having tea after. We talked about art, regret, and which Taylor Swift album is secretly poetry (spoiler: I said “Red,” he said, “Folklore”—we fought, it was kind of hot.)
The Afterglow
I left with that weird, fluttery feeling — like you just bought a really great coat on sale or someone told you you're the reason they believe in romantic comedies again.
And okay, maybe Zeke is my muse now. Or maybe he’s a Leo with a poetry podcast and commitment issues. Who’s to say?
But listen. I accidentally joined a jazz poetry night, and it gave me something I didn’t know I needed: Permission to slow down. To feel things. To flirt with a poet. To be — just for a second — the kind of girl who drinks fennel tea and writes about sidewalk chalk like it broke her heart.
Only in New York.
xoxo,
Rachel
