Sliding Through the Hood

Stale milk sky, traffic is trawling for any surfacing light. Rubber squeaks on the smeared blacktops. No hills to climb in this part of town we are flat earth and mostly just tilted into our daydreams. Corner shops are damp and derelict or heaving with low class crime. Shadows pounce if you drop a dime. Its a crawl through a gauntlet no one runs here unless they flee. The car radio is set to Fox News we haven't seen a fox hereabout in years only concrete cemeteries, islands of amnesia sprinkled with stone angels, hidey-holes where daytime hookers gather to pray for better weather.