Taxicabs idle in the parking lot, engines running against the cold, drivers watching the abandoned gas station-convenience store on the opposite side of the street.
One block away, wrapped in vinyl siding, stands the house where Henry David Thoreau stayed during his journeys to and from the Maine woods and the upper reaches of the Penobscot River.
White devils of snow swirl across the asphalt. The lights are on inside the store, a beacon of abundance anchoring the corner of State Street and Broadway…
Read the full lyric essay in the November 2020 issue of The Waterwheel Review.
Catherine Schmitt 