Springtime on Snoose Boulevard
I borrowed this from my short story, Found Objects. Well, actually, I sandwiched the story between the two sections of this . . . I don't know what to call it. It's certainly not a poem. I don't write poetry. You may call it what you will, a prologue and an epilogue perhaps. One editor I sent the story to suggested that I delete it; it added nothing to the story. But I seldom pay much attention to editors. So, for the purpose of this post, I will call it a thing-a-ma-bob, or just Bob for short.
April arrives on Snoose Boulevard as a softly blowing southerly breeze . . . not yet, but very soon after. When, high in a tangle of telephone wires, the first red-ribboned bird of spring trills its vibrant reveille; when the sun breaks through lead-grey skies to warm the snowbound spirits of the February folk below; when the snows of March, still drifted shoulder high in back lots and alleyways, begin to decay from within, and countless little rivers wend their way home to the gutter and disappear down sewer grates, to join in raucous chorus through the corridors and canyons in the belly of the city. Then the West Bank slips its soiled gown of winter, and the fierce north wind at last subsides -- seduced by the gentle breath of springtime.
Not yet, but very soon after. In glacier slow retreat, the soot-laden snow recedes, revealing long lost secrets to averted eyes and finger-pinched noses. Once prized possessions reappear among the slush and dog droppings: a soggy, single glove; a faded photograph; a sandwich, half-eaten; a plastic bag; a rusted key, never again to open a door; a forgotten phone number scribbled on a matchbook in green ink; a valentine, mailed with such hopeless hope, discarded with such disdain.
In all their olfactory eloquence, a variety of things so recently living make one last curtain call before their final exit from the stage. A shapeless viscous substance, perhaps once precious to someone -- though probably not -- lies unrecognized and unrecognizable, fermenting on the sidewalk, eventually to be stepped in by some unwary sojourner and carefully scraped from his shoe. Such are the many misplaced memories revealed by the April sun, announcing, at last, the greening of God’s garden and the return of spring to Snoose Boulevard.