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| Unsettled by the muttering, the fluttering of grubby fingers on slowly scissoring knees, women steer their children clear imploring them not to stare. They do so anyway, of course, and, as he watches them watching, his guttering memory illuminates a grainy image of his own children, probably parents themselves by now. The resultant grimace, sudden and grotesquely unconscious, like the twitch of an amputated limb subjected to electric current, frightens one of the gawking kids whose whimpering procures him a trenchant maternal glare. He thinks fondly of the bottle in his Salvation Army overcoat. Presently, a misting rain begins which quickly cleanses the park of cowering kids and glowering Moms. The water seeping into the ground conjures up a smell reminiscent of the cows that once grazed here and he glances down at his hands, suddenly expecting to find boils. Finding none, he takes a slug of gin, rises from the bench and shambles off. |
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