Come to the corner where lions stare. Where belt buckles slide. Where tar blocks steam and ignite the bottoms of sneakered feet.
Hear bus seats speak under thighs pinched tight in denim shorts and how breaks sigh and doors breathe when Bye Baby lets you off.
Skip four-five blocks and watch the Miller men play Nines’re High. Root for the one rooted to the beer box with a 40 in his hand – the one that Oh Child’s shines his knuckles on his heart and wears a parka in the summer.
Dip South to Reed where windows face street sales and houses share sides by side by side. Come over quick – before predatory eyes have chance to stick and your polite dismiss gets caught in curtained skies.