He dangles his now cool feet from the end of the pier - his
fishing line disappearing several yards out. It is here he contemplates Sally,
from the office. Her golden hair falling
across her shoulders, her blue eyes flashing to the beat of his heart.
By mid-morning he is deep in thought while the hook
lightly bounces upon the lake bottom.
Any nibble at this point would be an unwelcome distraction.
Far across the water on the opposite shore an Irish
Setter runs freely down the beach, his coat shimmering - his voice now raspy having
rejoiced at such freedom.
Back in the city a long line of black cars makes its way
slowly through the traffic. Somber occupants
gaze blankly through tinted windows.
As they pass Bronchi’s Liquor, a man runs from the store -
as if being chased. Street vendors can
be heard selling in the distance.
Standing at a pay phone - a man with two
small children explains to a distant voice
why he cannot marry again.
As one of the
children wanders off the second attempts
to warn. She reaches
up to the dangling
phone cord -
As the phrase, “Cold Feet” enters his thoughts he feels a
slight tug on the line.
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