Remmel's
pocket smelled
like armpit,
and his switchblade
felt good
and heavy
near his thigh.

The air was humid with
passing rain
and asphalt
and he pulled out a Marlboro
and stuck it
to chapped lips.

A flood of water
hammered the gutters.

And the grass he stood on
was an island.

A flash of light rolled around the corner.
Two glimmering beacons
riding up on him.

Rolling slow.

The windows were all blacked out
and sheened in a perfect
reflection of orangeish streetlights.

Remmel put his hands in his jeans,
his white boxers
pin-striped in orange
bars.

He'd come out the house without a shirt, and
his black *******
got hard as lead in the new wind.

He licked his lips.
As the car rolled up,
a murmur of bass
making the windows buzz.

He put his hands on the hood
feeling the buzz go through him
warm and tickling
as he leaned into the car.

He checked up and down the street,
and finally squared on his reflection
in the black glass
seeing nothing but
the shaking
green God of himself
about to create.