Waze
alerted me to a route change.
It wanted me to head back down 87 South towards New York.
Odd. I was going to Boston.
Crossing the Mario Cuomo Bridge I got cynical;
opened a couple of days before the primary, the timing both predictable & impeccable.
On the Saw Mill, I mused about Connecticut.
Richest towns/deepest hoods:
Greenwich, Darien, New Haven, & Bridgeport.
The parkway was bucolic but sinister.
How many of these trees, colors not yet turned, were crawling with Lyme-infested ticks?
A PT Cruiser? Who the fuck buys a PT Cruiser?
I amused myself. Snarky. Why do they call subs and hoagies Grinders?
Grinder? Good Lord.
And an egg cream soda, please.
New England.
Waze guided me to a picturesque town. Tidy Colonials flanked both sides.
A sign on one said: “Life is Good.”
Another fronted an All-State Insurance Agency.
I imagined rigid zoning laws to prevent modern consumer commodity culture.
A massive American Flag flew in the center of a roundabout.
Then it hit me. Jesus. I was in Newtown.
I took a left. The sign read: Sandy Hook — one mile.
Night Fell; darkening soil; darkening sky.
I thought of my friend. Her child was there that day.
He waved to his buddy passing his first-grade class. His little buddy waved back, proud to know a “big boy.” He’d never wave again.
A shadow mask presented. Aion reborn.
Bowl cut; tortured eyes;
broken soul; mother; Mother!
I tried to imagine their last conversation. I intuited there wasn't one; feet stepped into a room, she turned, confused, "What...?"
The Blue Colony Diner was packed.
Monday nights are hopping.
They'd survived, but would never be whole.
Over I-84 hung a bloated, yellow, Aries moon.
Twenty babies, six adults, and a soul beyond redemption,
I stifled a thought and pushed the gas; time to get to Boston.
