It was Friday. It smelled like beer. The two guys who had been sleeping on the grass were now sitting on the curb. Music was outpouring from the suitcase next to them. It sounded like something that was the opening score to a Doris Day/Rock Hudson film.
I thought about the British spelling for curb —
Kerb your enthusiasm.
The policeman who had harassed the men in the grass was gone. In his place were two bicycle cops wearing shorts. This time thy were too baggy, instead of too tight. How do they keep them from getting in the spokes?
Two ladies pushed strollers near the park. One stroller was empty and the mother was carrying the baby in a baby-backpack thing. Too many modes of transportation.
It was Friday and the sun was heavy overhead. A slight breeze to debate what was better: ice cream or liquor.
Now for a front porch.