It is Saturday evening. On a cold asphalt street a

smirking man offers me a flowered paper


with clean, polished hands.

His yellow gray hair is rumpled

The locks struggle to hide his warm,

dark eye sockets. One quick shave of the head would


reveal those eyes to sit bright, in perfect working order.


It is Saturday evening. From the

cement sidewalk I watch

the beaming man with my devil's scowl. I hope

he will go away, and I tell him so.


the torn paper bits alight on his loafers

the arms of his dead-tan raincoat do not

swing or cross themselves.


the grin of his lips

reveal teeth healthy like those of an

expensive horse or slave


And it is not raining.

My stomach will lunge for him,

my motionless fingers will itch for his neck .

Slow strides lead me away from there.


It is Saturday evening, and my house remains unlit. The carpets


on its floors lay still, a tweedy beige. I never notice that

they are filthy.

A gun always waits in a drawer in the kitchen.

The refrigerator never contains pie or birthday cake.