Out of the reeds and into the crowds on Seventh Avenue. I’m trailing a stink from my soiled shoe.
“What’s that stink?,” She says when I see her.
“The swamp,” I say.
“Smells like shit,” She says.
“Swamp is a fecund thing,” I say.
“Why do you smell like the swamp?” She asks.
“I was walking in the reeds,” I say. “Nearly fell in.”
“Smells like shit,” She says.
“It’s the stuff life is made from.”
“What’s that?”
“Shit,” I say.
