There can be balance and harmony, but never symmetry. It is she. I sit up straight peering into the private hour of my companion. The light changes and the bus accelerates. As the engine roars, I think fleetingly it's acceleration we really want.
Velocity is to acceleration as appetite is to hunger.
And the world should be hungry. A robust, elderly man clears his throat and for a moment I hear nothing else. She is crossing Broadway now, eyeing the opening on 1lOth left by a cab collecting its fare. Her long black jacket flaps shyly in the winter wind, while her eyes briefly survey the traffic running north. She looks up as if tracking a bird and slowly closes her eyes.