RABID POST
'I don't care about him; I can't, he's a pillar-to-post
monster of the sort they don't make any more.'
The fence had fallen where the Robert Frost
dumpling met her Jack Frost eyes. 'And anyway,
this has been the worst Winter ever. Now he
wants to think about marriage. Two guys?
Crossing swords and banging the flesh anew?
What's up with that? And what am I to do?' The
one lady jammering had to be a lost Jewish
mother just waiting to atone - like a million
other threadbare units on the New York City
streets, in two's they roam, talking of all these old
caveats and the rules they enfore and live by. So
weird, like every pathetic horse ever led by bridle
through Central park in the height of day. What
cares I for what they say? The ladies, not the horses.
Temple E'Manuel nearby, Park Avenue saunters;
the turkey-trot of any Jewish love bite goes on.
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