CLOAK AND DAGGER
This winsomeness is a variable
tool. I am at the corner of w86th,
near some old Mystery Book Shop
now long gone. The chilled, damp
wind blows up from Riverside
Drive, harsh Hudson air with a
vengeance. It is, maybe, 1984.
-
Portentous? You think? These
things take meaning only later
on. The vestibule has two lights,
though one is broken and dark.
A wall of mail chutes faces
me, each with a little, scrawled
name. I think to myself I ought
to write a mystery novel of my
own, using this building, and
all those character names.
-
Muggers are never charming,
and some swarthy character
outside keeps looking in. Were
I to exit now, he'd probably drag
me down and rob me. Or am I
being perverse? Maybe he just
has a food delivery, or has found
someone's purse, and seeks return.
-
Just then, too, the blue Buick, a
little bit along the curve, starts
its baring wail as the alarm turns
on and the headlights are blinking
and the sound is alive. I look up,
craning to see - two men are
seen running off.
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