by Walter Rhead
There are the stones like sunburn peeling, and there the park—all mud, no swings. And over there a chunk of sidewalk iceberged in the road. And there, beyond the drugstore (with the broken window front), a woman bound in gray raincoat of male cut and stringy scarf to match her matted hair is walking near the bakery now—the one across from ticket booth, the one with entry bell—and now she sees me watching her, and now she glances down; and now the gutter, chipped and dry, the gutter cold and graying, has caught the slug she spit— the one that sparkles under lamp, that's oozing toward the drain— and sent her onward, praying.
