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December 2, 2001 a tinderbox heart It is another gray Sunday, grayer than usual.  I pale in supemarket light and select three bent cucumbers for a dollar.  The deli worker recognizes me and, for some reason, that depresses me. At home, I chop onions for red beans and rice.  Chopping onions never makes me cry.  Chopping them with no one else around does. I recall a dimly lit bar seen through smoke-narrowed eyes.  I packed a tinderbox heart.  And a pulse that kept time with the music.

©  2001 by the beastmaster