The papers show me a barely literate boy who can't understand a mathematical word problem because the vocabulary is too advanced for him. For years he's lived like this (no one intervened?) and now they expect that sixteen hours of summertime intervention will prepare him for the sixth grade.
A silent figure at a window, she watches the flags, the batons, and the floats. She can probably hear the cheers through the thick, dark glass.
He offers passers-by a joke for a buck. His takers are a skeptical-looking teenager and a sobbing toddler.
He plays the violin huddled in on himself, as if he wants people to think that the music is flowing out of a bodiless entity.
Closed to the public, the promenade becomes a place where shadows stroll and spots of sunlight skip on the pavement.
Ducks preening in a brown pond.
Booths selling blue ceramic teapots and ornate doll heads.