“Plumped again with all the personals that had seeped from it. In my weeks here have I acted like some sloppy mistress whose man is away with the tidy wife? Once outside again, I know how it will be. Unable to scatter, I’ll begin to cherish every neatness I can scrape up. The soft, glycerined air of restrooms one cannot even enter unless respectably pre-cleansed—and where one cannot rest. Or, dropping lower in the social scale, and if you have found a store that still stocks Sterno, the campsite... fuel—the bunged pot on the improvised hob under some bridge. There’s no glow, but the pot steams.… The bit of company—just enough, when a passing stumble-bum brays: ‘I was a Boy Scout once.’ And stumbles on past, almost politely, far enough on from me so he can pee. Then moves on.… Where are they moving? Good question. Where did I, during those years when I deemed myself to be on the barricades—because I was nowhere else? Even so, in any planned life I adopt, will my bones ever forget that movement?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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