It was one of those bright yellow days; not quite Winter and not quite Spring as I lit my last cigarette (after all it was 1951 and smoking didn’t give you cancer back then).
I noticed as I walked across the park how the rain tasted sweet, as if someone had seeded it with sugar.
In the distance, I could hear a dog howling, as the wind carried its cries off towards Columbus Circle – there it drowned among the squeals of the speeding taxi cabs.
“Read it!” You’d said.
So I sat, opened your manuscript, and began ‘On The Road’.
bobby stevenson 2017