all. "Come, Muse, migrate from Aeonia."



Safe on the Sidewalk



Are there others, I wonder, who feel as I do about crossing the street?
There must be. Now I, when I cross, say Market street at Third, I run. I
take my life and my bundles in my hand and run, darting swift glances to
the left and to the right. It looks "hick." I know it looks "hick." And
I care. But I prefer to be alive and countrified than sophisticated in
an ambulance and so I run.

At corners, too. I think corners are worse. For there the machines may
turn around and chase me, which they often do. It's a horrible feeling.

There must be others who feel as I do about crossing the street, but
they never betray it. I watch to see and when they cross, they just
cross - that's all. Not with nonchalance exactly, but with ease and
assurance. Once I actually saw a man, a native son, I'm sure, roll a
cigarette as he crossed at a point where even the traffic cop looked
nervous.

No one ever gets killed or even injured. But always everybody is getting
almost killed and almost injured. They like it. It's a sort of sport.
I've noticed it more since the city's gone dry. The game is, if you are
walking, to see how close to a machine you can come and not hit it.