Kash6: 8-count

She walked at a clip down the street 

in front of his shop every week-

day for seven years. All spring long 

she wore an ankle-length raincoat-- 

eggshell--whether or not the fore-

cast called for it--and a matching 

hat in rain, but did not clutch an in-

elegant umbrella. Pastel

sweaters took her through fall, as if 

November could chance courting May. 

He never stepped out, purposely

forgetting apron, to sweep clear 

the stoop. He imagined she had 

a schedule she would mind him up-

setting. It pleased him to refrain 

from causing her inconvenience.

Minor exchanges he made up 

he filled with fine talk, her pale voice 

tidy. She must be frugal, yes—

wasn’t the coat proof? He could not 

fathom the type of woman who

would repurchase a piece season

after season and--once it be- 

came finally unfindable--

have it unconstructed and re-
made. Yet her walk-bys were as Swiss 

as clockwork. Of his dreams he did 

not want to be cured, though they be

lean game. Her face was not the face 

he dreamt of as he cut. Faces

matter little when a life is 
freshly killed red slabs twined, packaged 

in brownpaper, unspoilt. What is 
a yolk but a bit of sun saved 
for breaking later--on the day 
she fails to rise to precisely 

cross the vision of a humble 
man? An egg can be beaten, is

indeed pleasurable to beat.
A metronome beats until stopped.