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I feel like it’s their bedroom, and that I am intruding. There is a new couple sleeping in my wretched underpass skate spot.

Almost every morning I hit one of my favorite spots for skate abs (always thinking of new, saleable names for skating) – an underpass to I95, highly desirable because it is covered. It’s actually more desirable for houseless than skaters.  There is always broken glass, somebody’s bean plate spattered all over, cracks, fissures – a tetanus dream!

They’re an elderly couple.  Actually, I don’t wake them – they are already up, doing their morning toilet. He sets out a bucket for her to sit on, and I think she holds a small mirror in her lap (unfortunately, I can’t study her. She might take it wrong).

He has some nice chocolate pin-stripe dress slacks.  And he wears an undershirt, under his shirt.

I am always being quiet for sleeping people.  I must get up at the wrong time. Tiptoeing through my APT.  And now, cracking quiet ollies in the far corner of a metropolitan underpass.  shhhhh…

But then the Santarian roosters start to crow.  You can’t drown those beasts out with a pneumatic drill.


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