Morning in Watertown, Noon on Quincy Street





Green banana, three beeswax candles puddled on the bookcase,

bodega at the end of the block, tenor sax billowing from the east,



shoulder-length hair frizzy from the shower, anything you could

conceivably want a block north/Three cabinets of curiosities here,



two bookstores there, Mr. & Mrs. Bartely’s & the original Bob Slate

Stationers straight ahead, what a walk to the train & back! Here sits



her car. What’s with the Wellesley parking sticker? The jammed-full

pack on the back seat? Surely she no longer needs a car, so maybe



she sold it to a neighbor or gave it to a new man or a friend in need.

After all, her generosity has long been legendary. I’ll bet she likes 



the noodle shop new since I last knew her. Who am I talking to? I always

wonder like this, especially in a calm present tense that by its nature



evades consequence. Easy to be good, especially on an April Tuesday 

strolling the border between curiosity & whatever this hovering



speculation signifies. Not regret. Not sorrow. Certainties do exist.

Maybe a story of how many stories remain possible. Is that the best



you can do, oh narrator who may or may not be relied upon? A warm

muffin is much more nourishing, the hike to Porter Square even more so.