right hand pointing

Michael Paul

Morning on Hope Street, Providence, Rhode Island is remarkably empty. None are running or cycling, power-walking. Nor waiting for the bus. I am visiting the doctor because my left eye is blurry. Maybe I just cannot see them. I try to count the ghosts, geists, fantasmas, of people I have seen here, train my senses to imbibe polyrhythmic clamor, though it’s silent. It’s the Street of Hope.