he
cruised the dusty streets,
the sun harsh in his eyes.
a nondescript town:
the desert’s edge,
tarpaper shacks
lining the gullies,
potholes
that could crack a tire,
a moldy main street:
bars—
grime-dark windows,
stores—
gaudy junk.
he
had slept
on sheets gray
and frayed
like the town,
showered
in a rust-stained tub,
the motel redolent
of piss and bleach.
he
cared not a whit.
his business,
god willing,
soon to be done
and the armpit of a town
left in the dust.
he
cruised slowly,
carefully—
there:
an ochre house—
the yard uncluttered—
a brown woman:
black hair tied back,
swollen belly,
wide hips,
full breasts.
she
held a boy by the hand.
she
would do.
he
got her on the first shot.
he
considered
getting the boy
but
drove on.
god
had said nothing
about a boy.
This article appears in April 2016.
