Amazing the Liquid Grace of Love


It is surreal, walking through the city, my temporally protective vessel of economic protection sailing steady still and separate of me. Gone are my days of twenty five cent books. Gone as well the prospect of becoming good friends with my now former coworkers. The air is heavy with dread. All the passing pedestria seem so satiated in their routines. Gone, The Grind and its crumbly crust breakfast! Gone, Agata Christie’s! Gone, Jillian and her retrograde brogue. And everyone on ello knows my face…

I think about that chain link separating me from the highway streaming beneath the aquamarine steeple and I think about the speed of the subway cars and the story someone once told of some beat kid’s head being sliced or smashed straight off, but then I think of the gift of my wife’s love, whiskey, Wild Turkey 101, a litre, waiting for me at home. So I board the train, possibly against Piper’s well wishes.