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If this were a hundred years ago some down-and-out folks would be fishing (they say some still do) as it has been described in books, and red Twilight would creep up on them from under the arches of the bridge and Night envelop its massive pillars and the little waves of the current by turning their reddish gold into slowly-moving blue and grey and black at last. But they don’t and the current doesn’t turn. To the point that the river and city life appear estranged. Possibly because their Inbox is jammed by 25,876 unread emails, passers-by only pierce the surface today with accidental looks down from the bridge above it, or at it directly from the banks. Some trees there have stayed from a hundred years ago, they know. Conversations go on on either embankment, but they never reach down into the water, their roots have to.



ps March 2017 7

A wooden fence. The end of the path? The wood’s rough and wet. The fence’s small, no, hold on, it’s broken. There’s a plaque – cold, steel – then the hand drops. Go back. It says something. Not in your language, though. And friends have always been teasing for trying. For what? “It’s not like you can read “our” books!” Did they shake their heads? Skeptics do that.

E… n..t.. r…a.nce – s.. i.. gn… – f..or.. –  e..qu.. i..n.e… – f.. a ..c..ili.ti. es..

There’s more. Will it explain why it’s broken?

S..t..a..bles – f…a..rms –

The mind gets there before the hand.


In response to:


paper shots 2 - 93.jpg

Platform numbers are late coming up, and in the midsummer dawn outside half a day seems to have gone by already – hence, probably, people rush around and enquire track numbers of perfect strangers (dedicated staff is a few steps away – too far!) or of this pink-shirted man, somewhat plump, those are sweat stains from yesterday or the day before, his hair slicked back, who walks up and down the station in pool sandals and helps out, his services now to a woman complaining in three languages before she gets the right one that, !!They moved track 7!! His being busy looks like he could genuinely solve the problem of homelessness, once and for all, because we all smelled what it’s like to be homeless coming up from the subway below and only ground Arabica at the 24/7 café could sniff that away. That, was only 2 and a half minutes ago.


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Look! And he pointed; and he could because it wasn’t a person he was pointing at, or so it seemed, otherwise good manners would have prevented the action, resorting to some sort of verbal explanation – funny how in these circumstances the instinctual response must be the drilled-in consequence of years being brought up a certain way. This was through the big window of a bus, leaving downtown behind and heading north (the acquainted faces at that hour could already see the route and every stop), and by the time all this was over, they’d rolled on, quite noisily, potholes and street bumps and all – so what was it? The bookstore all lit up, the Grand Hotel, a palm tree swinging in the breeze, the amusing walk of puffy jacket & flip-flops? Wait, that was a person, so how about good manners? Gosh, it was all gone!