Old cigarette filter, rolled smoke, yellow tint at night, lines of
caution cones. Walked to the end of the driveway, looked left and right,
choosing. Crickets chirp, and in my mind I hear Bob Dylan.
“She’s gone with the man in the long black coat”.
I go left and walk under tiny suns on stems, a ghost of shadows
indistinguishable from the dark sheet of night until stepping under the
ochre beams.
The cigarette is my only friend until the can. I start kicking it,
because somewhere I heard that is what people do. I’ve never actually
tried kicking cans around, but that is what one does, isn’t it?
“Kickin’ your can all over the place!”
Passed a man walking the opposite way. Does he think it’s a joint? Does
he think it’s a joint?!? God, I wish it was a joint.
“It ain’t easy to swallow, it sticks in the throat”.
My only two friends disappear and orange eyed street monsters rumble
past phony Mexican grottoes and Greek gardens, abandoned markets and
ghosts of buildings no longer there, vestiges of childhood memories
bulldozed down and forgotten and completely nonexistent to future
generations.
Turn left again, past parked car, past group of three kids walking,
under trees and past barking dogs and friends’ houses, lights that
signal my approach, fire hydrants spilling shit-scented water into the
street making gleaming sheets of yellow streetlight ripples, loud music
whizzing past in steel people movers.
Where are they going? What are they doing?
Pink metal bars, a garden, an ebony child still as stone with head in
knees. This child of rock speaks to something inside of my mind that’s
indescribable and should be.
Street sign, close to home, car turns around, I thought to follow me.
“It ain’t easy to swallow, it sticks in the throat, she’d gone with the
man in the long black coat.”
Home.
