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  • 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 2016
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