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.