Just right now—
the light
at Blackhawk
blinks
its eye—sweet-
talking
colorless
traffic
columns forward—
stirring—as if
to recombine—
each
independent
free news-
paper page
now flapping
and thrashing
along
the raw wide
side-
walks
of hulking
Ashland Avenue—where I
and nervous
little Lucy
both walk
deleteriously
onward but
swerving—unsteady
and delirious
in this moment—for probably
the comfort—of both
hard
and
soft biscuits—respectively.
