The unseen, rising sun, had, a half hour before, extinguished the shining speck of the morning star and the two-toned shadow of the late rising moon.
As the bus had rocked along the still shadowed roads, the sun had hung huge and red in the eastern sky, appearing to be the size of the puny viewer’s fist, an array of rose-hued clouds attending the baleful body.
As the bus hissed and rocked off to the northwest, the social cipher it had shed, considered the wide boulevard ahead.
Recently improved sidewalks framed two asphalt lanes on either side of the broad, grassy median, with squat, swept-roof houses faced with pretentiously box-framed porches.
As the cast-off transit user ambled along—greeted warmly by a new home buyer, sweeping her walk and smiling with ebony-framed ivory at this holdover of that decaying race that built and abandoned her refuge—he counted:
One for sale
One for auction
One for sale
Another for auction—
Three more for sale…
After walking a single city block, along the northern promenade of an ambitious place, the garden of retirement, imagined and realized in a single lifetime, languished as unwanted space, left as the shambles of a lie under a now pinkish sun that glared indictingly down.
White in the Savage Night: A Politically Incorrect Life In Words: 2016
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
