Through the convex security screen
is the solid, pink columned façade of investment properties
jutting balconies with views of bricks & drain pipes & bitumen
rented by low paid day care workers, security guards, bar attendants-
there is a constant thrash & rumble of vehicles
dark, low ceilings, broken door knobs, plastic pine flooring.
To shake off the impending sense of dread I annoint myself with the latest in modern conveniences: BI-LO Skin Repair Cream, cockroach baits, burglar alarm…& further up the road stroll past acres of mall space & ducted air conditioning snaking up walls alongside kebab & pizza joints & smiling security guards & tables of redundant products- a salesman with mike & an audience of one… me… crooning with reassuring tones of amazing bargains never to be repeated…
It is in this scene this space at 3 AM
in which the kookaburra erupts-
projecting its long splintering
echoing through the dark, narrow laneways
of the apartment complex.
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Ghost Bikes Haunt New Orleans:
by Kristin Fouquet
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