All day editing. A folder full of memory’s fragments. Chambourcin in our to-go cups on the Delaware in Frenchtown. Returning from my pacemaker check in Fort Dix, post house fire. My daughter’s hand in King’s Point, dressed in commercial hearts. Another night in Marriott. Another tungsten-lit night. Drunk-driver aftermath on 309 north. A forlorn warning . . . I’ve been humming all day J. Cash singing, “On a Sunday morning sidewalk.” This Sunday’s coming down.
© Michael Ast, 2014
