Madison Square Park without a Notebook
He’s writing unpublished Bible verses next to the fountain, craving nature. He’ll stay for
an hour, look over his shoulder a few times, flex his toes to prevent the tingles. He’s
writing temporary blues songs, humming Stevie Ray’s guitar. He points his chin higher
when the breeze picks up. He wishes for Portland air, rye nights with photographs. He
wants to drive to get places. He’s writing instructions for a stick shift manual, alternating
his feet along the edge of the fountain, moving his fist slightly backward into second
gear, imagining the V8 of a ’67 Camaro. He’s writing a roadmap made of concrete cracks.