I strike a match and light the cigarette.
It's cold and there's a breeze but the flame catches long enough to light it before flickering out. I pull hard to keep it lit and hit PLAY.
The chords start, real rock. It's elation, really.
I start walking and I think, "How much do I love this song?" and as I watch the sun set down Broadway, covering southwest Manhattan with a pink mess of pollution and heaven, I say aloud "THIS much." Just another New York crazy.
You say rock 'n roll is dead? Maybe YOUR rock and roll, but mine is alive and well.
I ride on it for blocks, see the red hand flashing telling me to wait but I bound through the intersection anyway, and as I stop at the median I toss the cigarette into a dirty puddle.
It makes a satisfying sizzle.