Promenade

The junk men clearing out Stella's Hazel Street house smashed her old sewing machine deliberately putting on a show as I walked by.

Murderers, I mumbled. They must hate their mothers. 

I came out of the library clutching two books of George Bilgere poems as a watermelon-shaped woman in striped overalls was pushing a carriage down the street. This cheered me up.

Back home, dried cranberries in my tuna-fish sandwich, Bolero on the radio. You never know what might end up in a poem.