Parking lots luxuriate like civic sand piles in the heart of Boston. The monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat. Its colonel is as lean as a compass needle. He is out of bounds. 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, he waits for the blessed break. The Aquarium is gone. All rights reserved.