Parking spaces luxuriate like civic sandpiles in the heart of Boston. Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat. Its Colonel is as lean as a compass-needle. He is out of bounds now. The ditch is nearer.
Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set, the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons. Colonel Shaw is riding on his bubble. The Aquarium is gone. Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.