It's your town. Nice cookin' with you. Attitude seeps from the cracks, like steam from a kettle, like blown mist over the mountain. Purse your lips and exhale. When you reach your street, you relax a little, but you drive slower, because you know the kids here, and that they might skateboard off the end of the driveways, careen your life into new territory as they end theirs. Follow the cardinal with your eyes. He seeks another tree, spells dissatisfaction with his screech. You long to follow, but this is your street.
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