What of it? What of the tape on the telephone pole flapping in the wind? Or wind chimes in a neighbor’s yard, sounding like gamelans? Or wind in the trees? The air is cold, my walk brief. And there in the sky, the moon, near full. Same numbers, same time of day, two days in a row. A waxing ¾ moon appears in the sky above the dome of the most notorious of the city’s landmarks, the one referred to by locals as the “Phallus Palace.”ĥ:55 turns up again as I rise from one of the park’s benches and continue on my way. Walking the bend of the park, he reads a plaque about the 1778 Salem Waterworks, part of the park’s past. Birdsong relaxes him as he sits at a table gazing toward the house on Shady. “This park can be a place to perform the Work,” thinks the Time Traveler. But what was before a desolate field is now a park. Construction work over by the ballpark up the hill. Birds, motorcycles, cars cruising up and down First and Second Streets. The neighborhood has a bit of an edge, always has, air charged with noise. Another figure sings to me from a bus stop. A figure in large, loosely-fitted clothing serenades me as I walk, singing “Dress You Up” from a street corner as I crest a hill. My therapist’s office is a short walk away from the house on Shady.
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