It was one of those bright
yellow days; not quite Winter and not quite Spring as I lit my last cigarette (after
all it was 1951 and smoking didn’t give you cancer back then).
I noticed as I walked across the
park how the rain tasted sweet, as if someone had seeded it with sugar.
In the distance, I could hear a
dog howling, as the wind carried its cries off towards Columbus Circle – there it
drowned among the squeals of the speeding taxi cabs.
“Read it!” You’d said.
So I sat, opened your manuscript,
and began ‘On The Road’.
bobby stevenson 2016
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