Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Going up the steady hill of the bridge is hardly a chore any longer. But NYC itself is a chore-- solid with vehicles, as if cars are atoms in a gas and the heat has forced them to expand to fill the streets, bouncing wildly off of curbs, honking, drivers yelling. A man smashed into a crowd of pedestrians on his skateboard, then shuffled off ashamed. A young man, unhelmeted shot straight into traffic on his fixie and I braced myself for his death. Brakes, yelling.

I pull over whenever it's ridiculous, let everything pass.

No room for the little, not in the dark.