Avenue By Ray Scanlon

The city concrete curates an unremitting din:

Traffic,

Helicopters,

Horns,

Sirens,

Waspish Mopeds,

Perpetual Overload,

NO ESCAPE.

At the plaza, I strain yet fail to hear a sibilant bicycle tire and the clicks of the ratcheting freewheel—drowned out. On the other hand, the canyons channel a changing wind. I absorb olfactory calories from pizza, tandoori, and Zagat-rated Thai one minute, ocean salt and low tide the next.

© 2016 Ray Scanlon

Ray Scanlon. Massachusetts boy. Lucky to be above ground, lucky to have grandchildren. No MFA. No novel. No extrovert. Not averse to litotes. Twitter: @oldmanscanlon. On the web: http://read.oldmanscanlon.com

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