I Found A Dead Horse In A Pothole

We have a road here I use pretty much every day. Carefully. Very carefully. I don’t know what’s in those potholes, but some of those craters could hold almost anything.

I asked the city if it couldn’t do a little something about the biggest, the four or five that could swallow up a horse & carriage, if such still exist in our fair municipality. The road will eventually be closed and grassed over, but until then tossing a few shovels of asphalt into the gaping chasms would help a lot.

It’s right across from North Franklin Street, my abode and subtitle of this blog. North Not-Ben-Franklin Street, but rather North Governor-John-Franklin Street. The miscreant is Harrison Street, but I don’t know if it was named for Pres. Benny Harrison or some local character who had a pierogie store on the corner.

So I sit here, watching cars going down Benjamin (or Stash) Harrison St., pitching and rolling like a schooner on the open ocean in a strong wind. Missed that pothole, ha! went into this one, but turned sharply to avoid the next. His little boy is screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Will we die going into this big hole?”

Like vultures circling high above the desert on a scorching hot day, a tow truck keeps vigil under the coolness of a nearby tree. It waits patiently, knowing that eventually its next good meal will come along; the hooks will dig into the undercarriage as it pulls its prey from the cavern and life is good once again for the Towvulture.