In Praise of 7th Avenue
It’s not on the way to anywhere.
It’s a world removed from the fast food congestion of 2nd and the self-conscious business of 4th.
And it has nothing in common with the arrogance of 6th.
You just want to wipe the smirk of the face of 6th Avenue when it says,
“I can get you all the way from Whitehorse Beverages to Main Street lickity-split; No red lights, no interruptions.”
The others are even, but Seventh is odd.
It lurks in the shadow of the clay cliffs, with yield signs as far as the eye can see. The sheer 7th-ness of it seeps into your bones.
But it has its charms.
If you want to smoke a cigarette, but you don’t want anyone to see you smoke a cigarette, 7th is the place to be.
If you want to get in a bit of road hockey after dinner, you can do a lot worse.
And brother, if you want to dance, you can dance on 7th Avenue.
Who’s going to stop you?
I perch on the corner of Wood and 7th and plan to count the cars as they pass.
But none come.
It’s local traffic only in these parts.
So here I stand, a fire hydrant to my left and a graveyard to my right.
I suspect 7th Ave finds suitable companionship amongst the dead.