Above, mercury moon. The tigrrrrr of motor, slick-sliding on recalled Firestones. Men short-shaving grass. Cats in long grass crouch catatonic save quaking hindquarters, murder-sly. Tenements toppled and trickling towards dilapidation.
Boys emerge bald-buzzed from salons.
My skin burns with the heat of effort, fire ant-flesh. Down over tire-waffled snow. I like to sing to pass the time. My voice frays when I try to hit the extreme octaves, but I sing anyway, for the sheer blood-blitheness of it. How Great Thou Art, punching the air with tenor, resuscitating the day, then Jazzman and humming the score of Sleepy Hollow, the opening riffs of Pulp Fiction, the preamble of Gladiator, the sorrow-sighing Harlem in Glory, the tango in Schindler's List, Wolfgang Amadeus' Requiem, The William Tell Overture.