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ePaper created 2013-10-09, 06:36:00 | version 1.25.20
140 Asleep in New York, 1970 Oh my, so tired. Elbow pillow and blazer blanket. Is that even my car, my Pontiac Grand Am? Half of one headlight is twisted and the tires match the buckles on my shoes. I can’t tell what hangs from the mirror, but this sleep is dire either way. The car behind wants out; my windshield is how blan- kets wrinkle. It’s skyscraper shadows shading my hat, causing the rustling. The people at the crosswalk don’t know me; don’t know how my hand curls between my legs. If the hood pops, I’ll be lifted. I’m used to this. The creases in my forehead tell it like it is.