124

It was a heavy night,
Humid, dull yellow and
Stagnant, the air full
Of the sound of traffic
And air conditioning and
Bars turning out. Harlow
Crouched in the alleyway
Taking the few rounds
Out of the snub and he
Put them away. He rolled
His pants at the ankle
And put the snub in his
Long yellow tennis sock.
He cracked his knuckles,
Both hands, and stood up.
The mouth of the alley
Was roaring and bright
Like the window of a car
On the subway passing
A station. He paused with
A hand on the dumpster
To look up, past massed
Fire escapes and grilles to
A cramped outlet on the
Heavens. He thought of
The cashier, slumped to
The floor behind the till.
Grey, the gash the pistol
Butt made growing livid.
He spat. Above him the
Stars were close, yellow.