Little Easter

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The new TV talked to no one but me. Its virginal speakers babbled to an empty bar, a rapidly decomposing dartboard and a pay-for-pool table at which no one was paying and no one was playing. Taxidermied fishes, with sawdust for souls and glass buttons for eyes, turned deaf ears to the moot squawking, choosing instead to spy threatening harpoons, crossed like dueling foils against the red brick and mortar of the opposing wall. Yes, the new TV talked, but I barely listened. I was too busy blowing imaginary dust out of clean pony glasses and watching the weather.

Sound Hill was wedding dress white, Bing Crosby white, “White Christmas” white. After five fingers worth of years in this town, you’d think I’d be comfortable with the notion of snow keeping its cream for more than a few nods and a wink. I wasn’t. Where I come from in Brooklyn, snow falls dirty. At least I remember it that way. Back there the only white snow you see is spray-painted onto shop windows around the holidays. I guess I’m exaggerating, but not much, really. The air’s pretty dirty over Brooklyn.

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