Back to the Scene of the Crime

I panicked today. I felt panicked.

I had hoped, after this morning's early awakening with depressing poetry running lines in my mind, that things would improve. They didn't.

parking lots are depressing

Parking lots are depressing. Walking by them can oppress the spirit. Especially if you stop to look at them too long. There is all that wasted space. When it isn't being used to support empty and largely unnecessary automobiles, it is waiting to support empty and largely unnecessary automobiles. Either way, it's an asphyxiated wasteland.

A parking lot can make these skinny trees look like an oasis.

the west side of the street

It was maybe a wrong turn to try to find the male crow. I needed to see if his mate, the crow who was grieving, was still there. She wasn't, thankfully.

He was.

the male crow :(

I only stopped long enough to take this blurry shot. There were other people on the street, and one of them said loudly What's she doing?.

I felt conspicuous.

He looks like a caricature of the body I saw three days ago. How does it happen that no one moved him? I didn't either, though. I would like to tell you that I did, that I deposited his remains under a nearby bush, but I didn't. It's been too long. It's not him anymore.

I turned the corner, and this guy, twenty feet ahead of me, tried suffocating me with his cologne. Dude, it's a small bottle. You're supposed to use it sparingly.

seriously, guy, your cologne



I managed to overtake them at the intersection, even with the handicap of NOT BEING ABLE TO BREATHE. Some people need an intervention.

my legs

I encountered my long shadow-legs in the evening sun and remembered how I used to stand out in the middle of the street after supper on purpose, even though it was against the rules, to imagine myself long and tall. I was small for my age and completely unenthused about growing into a woman. The long shadow-body of me in the evening was impossible and tall and fantastic. I liked her.

backward glance

There are almost always men with fingers abnormally shortened by frost or faces sunken without teeth or skin pocked by illness to ask me for things here when I walk by.

Today, for once, they were not there, even when I looked back.

It's No Joke. God's Handiwork Is On Me. My Pasty, Round, Mennonite Cheeks Say So.

A Bitter Eye