I look around for a frame free of artifice.
At best I get cigar smoke blown through a harmonica in C.
Behind my head is the lowest quality conversation I’ve ever heard.

Earlier, locals pointed weapons at me from porches as I walked by.
They informed me that I wasn’t from this neighborhood.

If I’m gonna die in this city, I want to be carrying a better book.
Maybe The Long Goodbye

The concrete wall says “give me your brain”
“STOIC”
“I will grieve for…”