A sentimental rumble

Making sense of ancient jumbles is more sometimes than mem'ry can unsnare; who knows what whims, a stack of limbs, had seemed to have to spare? I found myself yesterday in one of those cauldrons of brick our Virginian villages used to thrust up at their core, before the blessings of Walmart cracked them open and gutted them of life; when a shirtless skater, swooping hard upon me, flaring shoulders in his crouching haste, roared past to echo through that canyon as a cascade of vitality, imploded. It wanted an ear.