A grade of school was a bridge in a mist.
Dylan Ebdus and Mingus Rude: one crossing the street to dodge a clump of kids from the projects, keeping his white face hidden in a jacket hood, the other hanging in loose gangs of black kids after school, then walking alone to Dean Street.
Instead they read comics, shoulders hunched to protect the flimsy covers, puzzling out the last dram, the last square inch of information, the credits, the letter page, the copyright, the Sea Monkey ads, the insult that made a man out of Mac.
He might be yoked low, bent over, hugged to someone’s hip then spun on release like a human top, legs buckling, crossing at the ankles.
