- Vol. 08
- Chapter 02
Cameras click, ballpoints scribble, pen caps drop, and printing presses run.
The daily news hits hard. Wrapped in rain-drenched plastic on doorsteps
city wide. Tucked in coat pockets. Forgotten on the Number 9 bus. The Number 5, too.
Black and white images brush patio bricks. Coins meet metal and cash changes hands
at corner newsstands. Pleasantries pass as news is consumed along with Snickers, Three Musketeers, and Mountain Dew. Aluminum cans are recycled, as are expressions.
Not again. Too bad. Too soon. Hurry now, it’s pick-up time. On to the next stop and the next story. Presses must recycle, too. Five-point font on front and back sides. Detailed depictions of wars on all corners. Yet, blinders are everywhere.
To be unseen, I know you – by name. You are
empty guest lists at dawn and dusk services
blank lines for next of kin
numbers with no names
names with no addresses
warm spots of concrete just to the left of subway grates
dark sunglasses worn on cloudy days
extra settings at wooden kitchen and dining room tables
unanswered voicemails and expired passcodes
comics before obits
crosswords with no answers
razor thin papercuts and generic band aids
obligatory pauses before conspicuous consumption
Always hungry for more. Soft pretzels. Bakers’ dozens.
Headline NewsSesame seed bagels and crispy baguettes. Frosted donuts, too.
Fresh batches baked and delivered daily. Air heavy of scent,
both sweet and sour. Inhale, exhale – again.
Hurry now, shifts are ending. New deadlines press.
Not again. Too bad. Too soon.
Pressures, printing, and paper routes persist. Yet many remain, unseen.