Marketplace

In the coldest hour of a grey morning, when diesel smoke moved between the buildings like a thought that had not decided whether to stay, I went to the Drafting Berm, which is where I go when I need to think without being watched. It is a low shelf of earth leaning against a wall on the edge of a street I cannot name for you except to say it is mine the way a worn step is yours. There, I noticed the interval.