Passing Through

I’m passing through a bad part of Richmond, a long trip almost over. Night rain drizzles wipers creak monotonously, the blacktop no longer flying but crawling over my eyes. On the edge of the city there’s a liquor store, maybe the last before the dark interior of Ohio. I park under its low neon shadows. Two belligerent drunks are fighting, both missing each other in slow motion. Inside the store more unsteady men argue, there arms gesticulating like broken windmills, plus one sleazy feme yelling silently but I can lipread most swear words. The nightshift counter-clerk is a kid and he looks like he’s ready to bolt. Maybe I could slip in there unnoticed past all the sweaty mayhem. Maybe make do with a cold beer, throw some dollars down make off into the night unscathed by lashing tongues or flailing fists More imagined nocturnal scenarios scatter in my head like dandelion seeds dispersing on a dry wind. I still need a drink.