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

Benched By Ray Scanlon

Recoiling from the stifling dense nightmare of a Boston subway crowd, I find sanctuary on a plaza bench. Concrete, steel, and glass surround me; they stand back, wary of my overt distaste. The Procrustean bench refuses to accommodate my slouch. I can feel oaken sentience and memory of edged tools through the nerves of my fingertips. Worn smooth, yet textured, the wood could still throw a splinter if it wanted to.

© Ray Scanlon

Ray Scanlon. Massachusetts boy. Has grandchildren. Extraordinarily lucky. Recovering assembly language programmer. Not averse to litotes. No MFA. No novel. No extrovert. Twitter: @oldmanscanlon. On the web: http://read.oldmanscanlon.com

Little Things by Ray Scanlon

On my way to the bathroom I stumble over the vacuum cleaner hose she left in the hall, and jar loose an f-word. I sponge up a lake around the basin, rinse crusty toothpaste off the hot-water knob, set the toothbrush back onto its charger. Flirting with retaliation, I think of her throaty diaphragm-driven laugh: a sonic Duchenne smile, not the faux soprano version she uses to punctuate voice mails. I lower the seat.

© 2011 Ray Scanlon

Ray Scanlon. Massachusetts boy. Has grandchildren. Extraordinarily lucky. No MFA. No novel. No extrovert. On the web: http://read.oldmanscanlon.com