Read an Excerpt
The chrome lid of the coffee pot twists off, and the glass knob rinsed.
Lift out the assembly, dump the grounds out. Wash the pot and fill with water, put everything back with fresh grounds and snap the top down.
Plug in again and wait.
Unemployment is also a great snow deep around the house choking the street, and the City.
Nothing moves. Newspaper photographs show the traffic backed up for miles.
Going out to shovel the walk
I think how in a few days the sun will clear this.
No one will know I worked here.
This is like whatever I do.
How strange that so magnificent a thing as a body with its twinges, its aches should have all that chemistry, that bulk the intricate electrical brain subjected to something as tiny as buying a postage stamp.
Or selling it.
Wayman Ascending into the Middle Class
In the middle of a trans-Canada excursion while he visits for a week with the parents of a friend
Wayman lies in a hammock through the hot August days.
Far behind him now are the horrible winter mornings he got up in the dark and dragged his lunchbox off to work.
Here, as he sips a drink in the gently rocking couch scarcely a thought crosses his mind about his old companions still probably stumbling about complaining as they hammer nails, steer tugboats or chase logs through the bush a thousand miles away.
A light breeze springs up. Through half-closed eyes
Wayman contemplates flowers, and a leafy screen.
He begins to sway into sleep. The beer bottle slips out of his languid grasp and falls almost silently onto the thick green lawn. Wayman sighs.
He feels himself float in his hammock, and begin to drift upwards:
ascending, as he snores into the middle class.