I walked to Benson with a broken
arch, squalling Cracker Jacks from
out a broken box. My toy was a tiny
crutch, the kind I somehow remember
getting as a kid from a March of Dimes
donation. It helped, but then it didn't.
I remembered a Catherine Smith. We
used to sit and have coffee together,
just a now and then type thing. Then
she disappeared in a big disappointment,
and all that was over and gone. Now, I
sometimes sit there too, but with my
dog in tow. I feel she enjoys it more
than do I. Mornings can be like that;
long, long, and dry. Here comes that
cable-knit sweater guy. He claims to
be a famous war photographer, and he
probably was, once. As was his father
before him. Names in a book, with
Cartier-Bresson. Oliver Morris, the
saying goes. I sat with him some too.
He smoked these endless self-rolled
cigarettes, with long ashes that
never fell off.