View from my car at
The man at the bus stop was reading an old hardback. They don’t make them like that anymore.
And my light turns green so I gas up and move on.
There’s a woman going into a cigarette shop. Silver heels towering. She must be
8 feet tall. Black ribbons
around her ankles lacing up and up and the softest roll of calf, peek of thigh,
an old ribbed knee.
I pull myself out of the car and swat at bugs. Flies. I must taste like a rotting fruit. Blue veins pumping something sickly sweet.
And I look up at the moon, hanging crooked in the sky. Half there. The sun a burnt thing, sliding away behind all that dead stuff on the mountains.
and gray. Orange
Not night and not day.
The worst time of the day. The time when the loonies lose it a little more. When the old men squeeze up their faces a little tighter and the bagger boy at the grocery store punches a hole right through the brown paper.
Figs. I buy the big green ones. Ripe inside.
I sit on the
of porch that I have and hide behind my massive hibiscus plant. I’m peeling
figs, getting at all that purple. Sun slipping away. Cigarette burning at the
tip and the bottle of whiskey is sweating it out in the icebox.