In Transit

This evening, desiring the kind of self-importance that only comes with casually walking across town carrying a transit and a notebook,

relishing the stares of children who stood watching me expertly shake out the tripod and level the platform,

admiring the meticulous charts and graphs I had slaved over with ruler and stubby pencil,

I thought:

Maybe I should be a scientist after all.

But then the mosquitos arrived for the feast, and the tripod fell askew, and my calculations were incorrect.

I consoled myself with a large dose of Anna Karenina.

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