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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 4, December 2015


Jim Davis, Jr.
Chicago, Illinois, USA

Columbus Day

For a time today, I stood on the platform, eyes closed in the hot air pushed ahead of an approaching train, stood because three homeless men were huddled on my usual bench at Porter Square Station. It’s always warmer down here than up there, where leaves fall through the smell of chestnuts and smoke from the vendor’s brazier. Now a mother drags her son by the hand as they run toward the train I’ve entered. They just miss the doors sliding shut. Soon I hope to be eating mussels at Graham's fish fry, "in honor of an ocean journey," he said. I'm late and by the time I arrive, it's likely there will be nothing left of the mussels but beards, grit and empty shells in the broth. I haven’t shaved for days. Neither had those three, huddled on my bench, one of them plucking a ukulele. “Where’d you get that thing?” one had asked. “Some store in Braintree. Just walked in, snagged it, and walked out,” he replied.

crooked fingers
in the shape
of A-minor



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