A woman peers out the window
on a subway train (near Coney Island).
To be from the South. It's forever. The South is my ultimate frame of reference.
Some Yankee asks, "Why live down dere where it's below sea level?"
Anger is easy to erupt. But the Yanks don't get it.
Riding the B train I realize my heart beats to the rhythm of the Mardi Gras Mambo. All writers know that. Frank Levy taught me that.
It does not help that I start singing, "Mardi Gras Mambo" — a blonde hipster gives me a dollar.
I admire her Trader Joe's bag.
Hey, I say. We got Winn-Dixie.
And she thinks I am talking about some fucking children's book.