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45 morning walk, 43 hours without sleep A woman stands at a red light. She has a fine spinal curvature and long, angular legs, but that is none of my business. A trash truck rumbles onto the curb like a big puppy that wants to be petted. A column of leaves swirls in the air like a jacuzzi of autumn. I look into the just-woke eyes of my fellow pedestrians. Suppose they really were skylights into the soul? Imagine a pupil’s color draining out, then peering in, as if into a well, and seeing the soul down there, waving up, smiling mischievously. I wish my eyes could spin back into my head, so I could see what’s floating at the bottom of the true me. A pigeon struts by, brushes my ankle, daring me to kick. I’m ten times taller than he is, yet he’s so brazen, cocksure his next scrap of bread will just materialize somehow. He isn’t freaking out about his lack of health care. A black cat hops my path, but it’s cool— 46 I’m not afraid of black cats. It’s the white cats who chug canned beer and blast heavy metal that freak me out. And here it is—the East River. What a poorly named tributary you are, made all the worse by the fact that your sibling on the other side isn’t called Wes. I would’ve called you Escobar. How dirty you flow, like the unwashed hair of a speed freak with a chatter in her teeth. I would’ve called you Esperanza. The wind picks up a plastic chair and decides not to sit in it. ...

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