Daylight Noir, 8:40 AM

A Street cleaner
blocks traffic
and kicks dust
on the hazy gloom
of this foggy spring-hot
June morning. 8:45, Tuesday.

I follow you home,
watch from a nearby
doorway, naked
under my trenchcoat
you entered
strange houses before
and removed your clothes
and made love to someone
you didn’t know…8:55 AM

You bought guns and pop
then left town to discover
a murder spree
of your own, I shadowed,
swallowed you for miles
and watched
Santa Ana destruction.
I live on gas station
coffee and hot dogs
and sleep on the steering wheel.
9:00 AM, still tuesday

Still air and the quiet
of a city struggling
to keep me under
your thumb. I bathe
In gas station sinks
and I do it with
an utter sense

of that fog that drifts
through the city.
I lose site of your car then turn off onto my own street.
9:05 AM Tuesday.

Home is where you’re not. I’ll start there.

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