11 January 2011. Cold, gray day. Crossing street against the wind... Two cups of hot Brazilian bold, smiling clerk, young, dark hair, Lahore or beyond. Grizzled man in plaid jacket, curly, bending over transparent counter to pick lottery cards. Array of hope, laid out under glass...
Headlines notwithstanding--or therein. Gleaming face of killer, a demented pride--his accomplishment of the day. "Dangerous..." Alongside, budget threats--a slower demise...
Holding coffee between my knees--no cups on table here. To humor Lynn... "Where is my gold star, my gold star?"
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