By: Andrew Dahl
The leaves in the trees in Tompkins Square Park rattled like bones. Art poked his head out from under the sleeping bag he’d procured just the night before. It smelled of piss, but it had kept him alive in this killing weather. He sat up, his vertebrae firing gunshots up into the base of his skull. Bending painfully, he searched for his bottle underneath the bench and made eye contact with a wren. It cocked its little head quizzically, and Art thought of his bulldog, Gerald—long dead.
“Oh, man,” he said, to the wren, to the leaves, to no one.