That One Day Last Week


I sat on a cold block of stone. And could see in front of me the imperfect straightness of the street — but not for far. The avenue ran in legs, crooked like a broken animal. And before me was just one unbent limb.

In the distance, a building sat in the middle of the road. The sun came in low, slanted yellow rays.

Toward me walked a man in a floppy hat and worn, black leather jacket. He carried a cane and a determined look, and somehow was able to walk past with a jaunty strut.

In the opposite direction, a parade of coat-covered butts muffled away in pursuit of long, black shadows.

The soundtrack was a group of cops, arguing about when it was appropriate for an ordinary security guard to chuck someone out.