You cross the street.
Looking quickly, side to side as you go.
The sun bows and
sinks into freckles,
shines red through auburn hair
and slips and slides up and down
the confident smile that warms your face.
Bathed in white gold.
Blazing red in the breeze.
And I, in some dirty alley, just barely able to keep you in sight,
am pushing garbage out of the way so
I can lick up stale dog piss
from the cracks in hot concrete.
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The Last Days of Los Angeles # 8:
by Luis Rivas
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