Jennifer Grotz
A Day So Empty
A day so empty. And now a night, and through the window I watch a
plastic cup blow back and forth in the street, its tempo and
direction determined by the passing cars. Pickup truck, roaring
Jeep, bullet of a blue Toyota. Headlights part the night like a
curtain that instantly draws itself closed again. Under the
streetlamp, a lone mosquito floats like an eyelash in the humid
expanse of air. Then rain begins, visible as it softly pelts the oak
leaves overexposed to a greenish yellow by the streetlamp. I scan
the street for clues of what one might feel. The rain mixed with
motor oil polishes the macadam. And a pedestrian looks down at his
illuminated cell phone, trying to decide whether to answer.
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