Wednesday, November 28, 2007


There’s no killing on the streets tonight. They’re all awash with the sick, green tint. Trees stripped razor bare of their leaves. Zip. Zip. Gone. The only movement is on the corner. Po’ Boy stands, arms akimbo, in the deadest of whites. Nobody sent him the memo. All accounts clear, checks cashed. He looks down at his watch, then looks around. Nothing. No killing on the streets tonight. Siesta Larga.



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