A Weekday
I was keeping to the middle of the street to avoid the rats. Walking without much concern for traffic at 6 a.m. I did not like the idea of starting the day with any kind of physical contact with rodents. The rodent I allow has not so much interest in contacting me either. But the possibility for accidental touching remains high. High as a trash heap. Please, startled from your trash heap dreams do not brush against the shoulder of my ankle. I beg of you to not run your gray lumpy self over my paint-splattered hiking boots. Instead of all that pleading I just walk in the middle of the street, where the heavy gray skittering from say beneath a Chevy is less frequent than up on the sidewalk.
In the afternoon coming back from Long Island with more paint splattered not only on the boots I brake as part of the two mile long rubber-necking procession and enjoy as we all do a good car fire, hood engulfed in the yellow orange blaze, tires catching now, just passing right along and rolling down all the windows to remove from the deeper recesses of my cavernous nostrils the smell of freshly burnt rubber. The fireman had been opening the back door and I spent the next few miles imagining what may have been in the back seat. There was always a stuffed animal.
Back up in a fifth floor sanctuary hearing from beyond the blue building the progressively more persistent whirring of helicopter blades over Wall Street I take a nap.
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