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Exoneration Benjamin Woodard Cold, cold, cold, and in the path of the headlights appear twin car seats, nestled between yellow slashes, vacant of children, their mere presence suggesting a bundle of questions, because it isn’t every day that expensive, spotless safety devices are found alone in a forlorn parking lot in this haven for insurance workers and drunk soccer parents, this birthplace of Noah Webster, far from the congregation of cars still occupying spaces at the discount supermarket, and the fact is that six months ago a grandfather was robbed here at gunpoint, so bad thoughts are not ridiculous to have when passing through this parcel of over-privileged suburbia, regardless of their ability to distress, for, yes, this is, overall, a rather decent neighborhood, and, yes, it is doubtful any thief would line these contraptions so neatly on the asphalt before jacking a car, and, yes, without flowers or balloons from the plaza’s party store, this certainly cannot be a makeshift memorial, but that does not mean a mother or a father isn’t right now driving far away from all responsibilities, nor does 34

5x5 Issue 4: Outsider  
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