Frag

What is that comfort of towel wrapped tightly around the head? The terrycloth security and face-pinching of it.
Ever walked home under rows of streetlamps? Short shadows and no stars. Silent spectator. The megawatt bulbs interrogate the road. They ask: how many criminals did you carry today? How many saints? The joggers and dogs and strollers. When were you born? Which quarries spawned you? Or were you simply vomited up, swallowed and then spewed out like so many grits of oatmeal. You walk in time, the lights on your shoes every outbound step. Rhythm and the circles of the streetlamps like bulbs rimming a stage, you're a dancer. Stage fright. Tutus.