then she slips him a note as he tightens the spokes
on his bike wheel. squeezing his eyes tight to burn in the numbers. he peddles south down boulevard st. past the power lines and "no vacancy" signs. by the drive-thru of a dairy queen, he makes a left turn on park where the gun shop sign barks, "no minors!" to the criminals and freaks.

parking lots are steaming as gun metal lamp posts guide innocent cars to the stores. donut shops are teeming with after school delinquents and other such children of divorce. and the loitering laws are ignored. call the police in.

past the u-store-it, his uncle ron waves. he used to own it but those were the 70s. up on the rooftops girls are sunbathing. their hair is chestnut. their bathing suits are scathing.

as the summer drags, the days are flying past in this world where the girls and the food are fast.

wedding bells are ringing in the temple of elvis as drugged-out fiances arrive. business is booming at the 24-screen cineplex as patrons emerge and squint their eyes.

and the children cross the street against the light. call the police in.

and he pauses at the place where she slapped him in the face when she turned thirteen.

and he eyes the colored flags at the audi and jag dealers and yet another dairy queen. he lives at creekside ridge where there's no creek or ridge. and the gate man has cops on TV. and the jaded man at the drive-thru espresso stand mixes up his change for a twenty.

and everybody's singing like tone deaf zombies at the temple of the nazerene. "who do they think they're fooling?" as he locks up his bike on the porch and squeaks open the screen.

and the sound of her answering machine fills the night.
Powered by LyricFind