By Samuel Campbell
A tense village had colonized his shoulders and neck. Soon, an army was marching to the rhythmic pace of a Lieutenant. Heavy black combat boots digging into the stable bridge of neurons were drumming along the surface to a beat hidden inside a jaw muscle destroying shreds of a turkey on rye.
He knew the deep breath of relaxation would only motivate his soldiers to move faster. As he gazed through the skywalk window, as his eyes played along the edges of the cracks in the road, he saw them again—arm over shoulder, chins tucked. He didn’t say it, but he hoped their eyes would meet on the rocky banks of that crack in the road—his telling theirs to look up, maybe for a wave, a smile of hope, and if he could, a bite of turkey on rye.