Poverty’s gravity pulls them to these squat, chain-link slums, the peeling-paint shacks with blue-dragon-scale wood siding tilt toward clouded-sunset’s shadowy mortality. Outside the cement-block laundromat, a girl wearing green shorts twirls flowing brown hair ’round a slender finger under a pale-flicker bulb, and stares at me. I look back for as long as I dare, driving slowly– knowing her only for a moment, enough to know her as much as we ever dare know anyone. She’ll have her share of slick-back salesmen like me. She’ll seduce each one– turn away most, fall for a few, but always with something withheld. She’ll make each flawed man feel the bulging-vein sovereignty of a god– as they mount her. Tho none will ever write her a poem; none will ever see the frayed-seam bloody-club anarchy rioting in her eyes. None will hear the bastille-moans of missed destiny’s buried history, wavering and lonely in the mournful hymns her voice sings; the bottled-water, debt-slave suburbs await my return, and the fuel in the tank– nearly spent.