A Walk
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By Charles Hawes.
First thing: you. That old void in your head. It’s winter. The sun is an itch in your eye. There’s construction, of course; the sound wakes you as the streaky slam of your loosely hinged door concurs with the recognition of some meathead from Staten Island bent grimacing over a jackhammer that shatters the sidewalk and with it any hope of civility for the day, or room for thought, normotension, tinnitus-free ears—no, this probably prejudiced Italian who likely shares No
First thing: you. That old void in your head. It’s winter. The sun is an itch in your eye. There’s construction, of course; the sound wakes you as the streaky slam of your loosely hinged door concurs with the recognition of some meathead from Staten Island bent grimacing over a jackhammer that shatters the sidewalk and with it any hope of civility for the day, or room for thought, normotension, tinnitus-free ears—no, this probably prejudiced Italian who likely shares No
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