The Formation of PuddlesGerry LaFemina
begins with rain streaking the windows & coalescing on the driveway or by the front sidewalk. When I was a child, I’d watch run off guttering its way to the corner grate. By adolescence I’d learned the simple enjoyment of walking on such days, preferably with a girl, but, more often than not, alone. If my sixteenth year had a soundtrack it would be the staccato of a storm on St. Mark’s Place, buzz-saw guitars from of an open doorway, the infrequent tom-tom roll of the Six train beneath Astor Place, almost rheumy. In the morning worms will appear at the puddle’s edge, who knows from where? Then birds’ll come to gorge themselves & bristle their feathers in the filthy water. Then the local stray cat will arrive hungry & aloof– it’s him I understand best.
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