BY MICHELE HERMAN |
I’m riding my bike eastward
on West Sixteenth Street
on a muggy August Monday,
heading to a PT appointment.
Ahead on my right by the curb,
a garbage truck is idling.
The sanitation guys have just
upended a trash can apiece
into the slop in the back
of the truck. A disturbed,
moderately sized rat appears
in midair and flies straight
toward me. This happens too fast
for me to change the trajectory.
Its belly lands on top
of my sandaled right foot
and stays for a full revolution
of the pedal before I can
shake it off. I hear myself scream
EEEEUUUWWW all the way
across Chelsea. I still feel it
on my bare instep, its surprisingly
soft and furry sentience.
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