LET ME GO, WILL YA'
Grandma had the kettle on. It was 1956.
Outside, the Bayonne street was dark and
gray, an idling grocer's truck nearby. Th
basketball hoop then next to her house was
busy - some guy just looping lobs. I stayed
to watch, fingering my sneaker. There wasn't
much else I could do - it was always a strange
feeling to me, being someplace I wasn't sure
of. This wasn't home - I'd been moved away
some two-years ago, to a new place in some
suburb-wasteland town still laying down stories
and streets. New things. Crummy. Anyone I
knew I'd just met. No fun, and nothing old.
-
The guy kept driving for the net, and hanging
up a decent lay-up shot. But how many of
those, really, can a person do alone. Everyone
looks great in solitary. Grandma's kettle began
to whistle, and I headed to go back in.
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