augury doggerel

Tuesday, June 11, 2002


Last night: quiet at the pub. A few million local men had just been awakened from their recurrent football dream and you could hear it. Little paper banners, Mundial 2002, were still hanging over the bar and up around the doorframes, but the wall chart showing scheduled matches had already been markered in, 4-0, and the streets were not full of shirtless cheering drunks and understanding policemen. A few men with nowhere else to be were almost half watching the sports on television and more than half drinking. The stereo was off. I was reading in my usual seat, with my back to the television, and wishing for rain. A street-sweeper truck went slowly along the curb, brushes spinning and hissing. The tram went by, always the same squeal on the corner, and, when the air is thick, the same blue spark.

This morning: rain.


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