washwords

I get the Express every day, folded in gloved hand, the Ballston guy hands in syncopated rhythm, “hello, beautiful;thank you darlin, here you go hon,” fwip, fwip, fwip, the papers fly hand to hand to hand. “thank you sir,” I say. every day. in harmony with the clipping shoes, spreading umbrellas, buttoning coats.

["Stormy Personalities" by Fu Man Jew on flickr]

I take out my metrocard in one hand, folded paper in the other, pull out pen, and begin.

I might flip through the paper – if there’s a picture of the president or news that’s not alarming or mundane, but quickly i get to it: the crossword.

I like the feel of blue marker ink spreading over newsprint, letters into squares, into clues, into words until the grid is complete. I try to do them by the time I reach the office, and definitely by the time I reach home.

Then I send it to recycle bin and wait for morning to begin. again.

words, ritual, crosswords, express, ink, morning

Powered by ScribeFire.