winter has come to the laundromat . . . up there on hwy. 70, there are folks in there, behind the steamed up windows folding flannel work shirts and carefully putting quarters in the dryers.
a woman-boy came from behind the gas station - she-he was straight as a pole, strided long in olive pants on legs like a black antelope, slightly lanky up through bent shoulders, bent toward the white cold sun in a fur hat, like the Russians wear in Red Square, but something about her-him said Paris. She-he crossed the street without looking at the yellow light and disappeared behind those shanties where i often see a fat woman calling a dirty little poodle back from the roadside.