There's a wood-panel station wagon with the front end up on the grass in Mr. Carey's yard, with one broken window where they'd finally forced their way through to get to eat some lady who'd spent seven hours in terror. There's papers — school papers, loose-leaf — blowing around in little tempests impatient for the rain to weld them to the concrete. There's blue and red glass in shards, down by the stop sign, from a police cruiser that didn't stay long. There's most of a body on the sidewalk over by the mailboxes.
There's an umbrella, ruined yesterday by unexceptional wind.
No comments:
Post a Comment