From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The rough wool of my Sunday suit chafes against my neck, a nagging reminder of the lice and cooties those poor boys brought home from the trenches. I try to distract myself by rubbing the smooth, notched cedar of my nephew’s Lincoln Logs, but the newspaper headlines about soldiers rioting over German opera have me trembling; everything feels ready to boil over, even with the bread price creeping toward six cents. I catch the blue flicker of arc welding down at the shipyard and wonder if a shortwave radio might finally bring some sense to this chaotic world. At home, the metallic scent of the pop-up toaster burning the crusts is the only thing grounding me as the air grows heavy with the threat of new demonstrations.