Little Main
On Main Street I was thinking about wine. Maybe it was because I parked near “The Winery,” but maybe it was just because I love wine. I used to take the unofficial wine tour of the Grand Valley every other week. I did it to get soused for free back when I was a real drunk. Every winery offered free tastes of their wines. By the time I had tasted five wines from eight different wineries, I eagerly wanted to do it all again. The proprietors never became tired of me, because occasionally I bought wine. And wine makers never tire of talking about their own wine to someone who cares about the subject.
In sentinel square I sat and wished the wood signs suspended by delicate chains were making their noise. An old woman across the court yelled into a cell phone. I refused to listen to her words because of the attitude in her voice. I joined passers at the urge of the concrete worm designed to guide the humans where to go.
Bodies sat square in my path. A resurrected torso fragment by a Mr. Meastas felt the chilling bronze as its skin. I put my hands on her. In the windows are photos of other peoples homes—a meaningful display of character. A much too lengthy process to detail, and I don’t care any way. Off The Wall sent me out the door when I thought eight ninety five meant nine dollars. For horses. That’s what I get for caring.
A clever name tag on the woman at Main St. Bagel made me chuckle. “Patience” in big letters was underscored in fine print with, “I’m in training.” And then I realized she wasn’t Patience and she wasn’t patient. I had a muffin and some coffee and tried to quit thinking about wine. I imagined eating tart dusty wine grapes off the vines with no hands, as I had done as a kid in my grandfather’s fields. Sometimes a wine can bring back a certain flavor I haven't tasted in forever. It’s a weakness. I sat and knew I should read Young Men and Fire and not just some or most of it. I sat in a window and worried about time, because I’m always some where prearranged. And there’s only a few moments left.
In sentinel square I sat and wished the wood signs suspended by delicate chains were making their noise. An old woman across the court yelled into a cell phone. I refused to listen to her words because of the attitude in her voice. I joined passers at the urge of the concrete worm designed to guide the humans where to go.
Bodies sat square in my path. A resurrected torso fragment by a Mr. Meastas felt the chilling bronze as its skin. I put my hands on her. In the windows are photos of other peoples homes—a meaningful display of character. A much too lengthy process to detail, and I don’t care any way. Off The Wall sent me out the door when I thought eight ninety five meant nine dollars. For horses. That’s what I get for caring.
A clever name tag on the woman at Main St. Bagel made me chuckle. “Patience” in big letters was underscored in fine print with, “I’m in training.” And then I realized she wasn’t Patience and she wasn’t patient. I had a muffin and some coffee and tried to quit thinking about wine. I imagined eating tart dusty wine grapes off the vines with no hands, as I had done as a kid in my grandfather’s fields. Sometimes a wine can bring back a certain flavor I haven't tasted in forever. It’s a weakness. I sat and knew I should read Young Men and Fire and not just some or most of it. I sat in a window and worried about time, because I’m always some where prearranged. And there’s only a few moments left.
posted by A. D. Blade at
11:18 AM
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