BOY HIDING IN A DUSTBIN:
Who’s that waiting at the cutters, smoke rising between the fingers,
checking messages, killing time? A cold start for a bunch of keys
swung, impatience waiting, distracted by a hand raised to a welcome
smile down the street. A glance from a freshly showered pony tail
passing. Rock-a-billy-Boy spread a little joy, untie this knot in the
stomach, this nauseous churn. Watching a razor shirt swagger to the
door of a Black four-by-four, silhouette against the tail lights.