Friday, April 15, 2016

Jim Harrison

In front of the soccer stadium stands a sculpture of a mask-like face made of strips of bronze woven together like wicker. Kids and lovers like to peer out the empty eyes and smile and get their picture taken. I look down at a McDonald’s cup that has been spilled on the sidewalk right next to a garbage can. No one has bothered to throw it out, including me. Jim Harrison’s dead and along the side of the stadium, people are camped out for the game tomorrow. I can’t imagine wanting to see a soccer game badly enough to spend the night in a tent on the street and besides, it’s a big stadium, there are plenty of seats, I don’t understand what they’re hoping for. It’s getting cold out and I can’t breathe through my nostrils everything’s clogged and there’s only one light on in the seventeen story high rise across the street. I try to think about the last purely unselfish act I’ve committed and I’m having trouble remembering what it could have been.

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