“He ain’t no cowboy!” she says with a broad toothless grin. It’s tough to take her glazed-eye rant seriously as she deftly unfurls the fluorescent-pink yo-yo while half-slouching in front of the glass door with the block-lettered EXIT inscribed on it. This is a hoity-toity grocer that sells starfruit and other exotic stuff in quantities like the quickie mart sells sour cream and onion chips. “Can’t make gumbo in a double-wide!” she declares with unquestioned authority to the nylon-legged, navy-suit, career woman who nervously checks her internet-enabled, blackberry mobile.
glowing round moon
a wild yelp springs out
the passing car
