City Hall East is a Huge Hunk of Brick
Why is it that trees must be skeletal, thinks me, between watching the sidewalk for suddenly uprooted pavement. There is a business card in the bush to my right, I guess the bush is holly, though I'm also sure my guess is incorrect. It could be a good guess, if I had four choices, and I was sure one of the choices was a type of tree, and the other two choices were bushes I had never seen before.
The traffic suddenly clears, and I start across the four lane road. I watch myself from the eyes of drivers under red traffic lights on both sides, listening to NPR or classic rock, in this section of town. I look both ways too often, swinging my head rapidly and foolishly even before I've crossed two lanes. The drivers watch me, and drink 9am coffee, and wait for the light to change.
It's really the cracks in the sidewalk which are skeletal. A good comparison, the type I'd write down if I was still at work, but will instead forget on the way home. Really a very good comparison as the cracks beneath my feet open like great negative spaces in the city's sidewalk exoskeleton.
A homeless man limps by, and he is too wrapped against the cold for our eyes to meet.
I won't think about my earlier decision to volunteer at a shelter until I'm waiting for my coffee and oatmeal at home. Two things about that last thought before I go back to watching the sidewalk; the thought which skitters light across my mind in the cold of a sidewalk next to newly renovated lofts, along a busy street. First, the coffee. I've stopped at two cups a day, thought I wish I was the sort to drain a pot of coffee and halfpack of cigarettes for lunch. Second, home. I travel a lot, I think, compared to other people, though my immediate circle does tend to enjoy travel. For me, home is the place I sleep, which is one of two possible ways for frequent travelers to understand home.
Cash Money Mob has tagged the bus stop shelter ahead of me, and the women pulled against the shelter's shield seems to strain from the grafiti, though her position is only a result of the early cold.
The traffic suddenly clears, and I start across the four lane road. I watch myself from the eyes of drivers under red traffic lights on both sides, listening to NPR or classic rock, in this section of town. I look both ways too often, swinging my head rapidly and foolishly even before I've crossed two lanes. The drivers watch me, and drink 9am coffee, and wait for the light to change.
It's really the cracks in the sidewalk which are skeletal. A good comparison, the type I'd write down if I was still at work, but will instead forget on the way home. Really a very good comparison as the cracks beneath my feet open like great negative spaces in the city's sidewalk exoskeleton.
A homeless man limps by, and he is too wrapped against the cold for our eyes to meet.
I won't think about my earlier decision to volunteer at a shelter until I'm waiting for my coffee and oatmeal at home. Two things about that last thought before I go back to watching the sidewalk; the thought which skitters light across my mind in the cold of a sidewalk next to newly renovated lofts, along a busy street. First, the coffee. I've stopped at two cups a day, thought I wish I was the sort to drain a pot of coffee and halfpack of cigarettes for lunch. Second, home. I travel a lot, I think, compared to other people, though my immediate circle does tend to enjoy travel. For me, home is the place I sleep, which is one of two possible ways for frequent travelers to understand home.
Cash Money Mob has tagged the bus stop shelter ahead of me, and the women pulled against the shelter's shield seems to strain from the grafiti, though her position is only a result of the early cold.
Labels: writing
posted by Fifth at 10:56 PM
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