Your metallic space-green Mustang white faux leather convertible 70’s model of something or other pulled in the spot, out in the street. You again, on weekends, kicking the curb— doorbell rang, knock-knocked up. Surprised you didn’t just walk-in our salt-box hut. You so gallant You so cocky You so pretend to want to. Momma doesn’t want to play no more, she is fed-up and lost. Kids, money, depression—all too much. You, lit-up and fired-up and freed-up! Her, imprisoned. The street seems so mean, so, gray-black-macadam-green. It’s not warm and comforting, it’s castless, cold and melting. No path forward—nor backward. Not sure where these mean streets lead but we go anyway, it's obligatory.
© Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

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