Placid

I love Superbowl Sunday. The stores are as near empty as they ever get— as long as you avoid the halftime beer rush. The streets are nearly deserted. Empty asphalt gleams, unsullied by cars, block after block. It is quiet. All the noise has been corralled into houses and bars. There the fans guzzle and shout. Meanwhile I shop quickly and pass contented along the deserted street, home to my quiet, uncompetitive dinner. Better than Christmas.

( Sunday Verse )