broken street

I’ve been calling this street the broken street. It must have a proper name. The street is not only broken; it is deconstructed, destroyed. It has been for weeks. It’s uneven, and full of rocks and piles of rocks that shift and slide underfoot in parts, and puddles in others. Pipes are exposed; engines rumble and churn up dust. The bookstore I frequent is full of it.

You have to walk a rickety wooden plank to reach it, or the travel agent, or the police.

This street is in the central shopping district in my town. Not much shopping is taking place there these days. Nor much construction, from what I can tell. But the people have to walk through there. There’s no other way. Most are extra careful -- not to misstep, twist an ankle, get a sandalful of mud or a lungful of exhaust. But here, more than anyplace else, I keep getting hit -- with bodies, shopping bags, baby buggies. I’m tired of it.

It’s every man for himself on the broken street, and every other street, in my town. In the myth I have of myself (my other life), none of this stuff happens. Not where I come from.