Not Nice

He left the flophouse but the reek of sweat stayed with him, his T-shirt already stained, so he lit a Gauloise as he mounted his truck covering one reek with another . He took a selfie while time passed and his ice melted. The street was a sea of red, white, and blue, he’d been in this country more than ten years but never been touched with a sense of belonging until the crowd’s chanting turned to screaming and in a hail of bullets he tasted bile.