Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Camac Street. Philadelphia. Where I wrote bad poems, read at night, bought ice cream as an extravagance, waited for the phone to ring, but it hardly ever did. Where the big meal out was the Middle Eastern shop; I've still not tasted hummus like they made at that Middle Eastern shop. I met Precious near Camac, when I walked (in sneakers) Locust late at night. I went back and forth to my job until, at the age of twenty-five, I went into business for myself.
So that this place, which had red doors once, was where I waited to be married, then was. Where I had a job, then created one for myself. Where I stopped writing poetry so that I could write short stories. Where I learned I would have surgery that would wire my disintegrated jaw shut.
So much happened on Camac Street.
I walked by the other day. I remembered.