The Afternoon Pouring Through The Cracks

I’ve seen broken women stand in front of open windows in the August heat as the American flag fluttered in the breeze.

I’ve watched a retired policeman -high on nicotine- walk two young mothers across crowded streets. Past black transsexuals with painted eyes and lips who stand together on corners, pose and snap for the sad old man.

I’ve stood with Mexicans in empty bars in Texas with the afternoon pouring through the cracks. The broken tiles, the poor speakers dangling from chains in the corners as a fine, drunk child picks Chuck Berry over Elvis.

I was arrested for going through people’s mail in the break of light on a desolate country road where the sun scraped the trees and the wind was easy on the spirit.

I smoked grass as I and watched a man of eighty sit in his garden, naked, sipping a tall glass off lemon tea behind his broken, Ford truck.

I was one of four people who mourned over a dead horse. A blue, wool blanket taken from the shed, draped over.
The woman, in tears, bowed at the waist.
The farmer, rolled a smoke, and waited.
The young cop, sturdy, confident.
And I, hungover from guilt, shook at the scent of the dead.

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