The parking man can

 

 

March 16, 2012

 

Sunlight gleams off the bright glass this cool Hoboken morning.

It feels like fall, but it is not fall. It is the end of winter and the leaves have already turned and fallen and are preparing their triumphant return.

Some old leaves have found their way down onto Washington Street where they are whisked up by the persistent brushes of the street sweeper.

Each morning, it is the same ritual of waiting for the parking man and his ticket book to arrive and pass, the sound of the brushes brushing against this asphalt world, morning music we all come to live through, as the parking man’s van beeps out its warning for us to move or pay the price, while we switch sides as he passes, and thus wisely, learn to escape his wrath.