Hindemith

This is with Germans. Hindemith lingers in smoke streaming from the glowing ash end of a cigarette. That kid takes a deeper drag then spews that mass into the light of heaven’s sun. It is not summer yet and it rained this morning. Said this one, “Those kids scare me with their swearing, drinking and smoking,” in a whisper, “Shit Eddie, why are we here?” In front of a radio which must have been a relic of the industrial age or 1976, this one asked, “What is this?”

Hindemith. Then another child took an apple which had fallen to the grass and heaved it at a passing car. In the noise of wet tread each stands his ground. Music sinks into the mud, pulsing like earthworms do. Children reach for apples. More cars pass. Until it is gone, the fruit, the machines, the cigarettes and liquor, the music, and then we run. Hindemith.

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