THE ASH-CAN OF MY LIFE
So let's make it 1932 again, yeah, all over again:
there's a kettle on the open stove, and some water
is steaming while, over on the board, the flat-iron
runs hot and ready. There's a cat being lazy on the
settee, and no noise from the room the room in the
back. Fireplace ashes, I see, blown round again.
-
The kid out front was hawking newspapers from his
wagon - yelling out loud about something. A streetcar
rolled by just as I was trying to listen - couldn't
make out a word. Who's afraid? Who could care?
Sudetenland? What's it near? Barrel-heads too.
-
A crane or a steam-shovel, or something, is
perched on the mound of dirt across the street;
another too-big building going up. Shielding some
more Depression light from my tired old eyes?
Why's that, I wonder? Small change is
rattling my pocket. Small change in
my pocket again.
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