The cabbie’s right hand travels the warm flank
of his unharnessed stallion, the striped woolen
muffler still pulled tight across his mouth, as if
to prevent himself from speaking aloud any of
the things that come into his mind after a long
day of work, before walking back down empty
streets to his shared room. The turpentine has
soaked through the earth floor at the west end
of the stable, where a clever boy who ran away
from home when he was still only fifteen used
to sleep in the hay every night. But even when
the world seems to forget us, the memories of
what we have done can seldom be rubbed out
completely. And sometimes the kids who look
far older than they are loiter behind the bolted
door to smoke, for kicks setting on fire unsold
newspapers and watching them burn up in the
rain barrel, wishing they could cause real harm.
—
The Zingara Project 