S c r e w e d

I walk down Nostrand Avenue in a suburb of Long Island. That rust-rimmed with gold tree in a yard justifies the whole suburb. Oh mom, there are eight things.

No one is impressed with my forced cheerfulness.
On a rusty clipboard I write these words down for you.

Tanya, have you noticed whose side I am on? This is not Nostrand Avenue where I share a rented apartment in Bed-Stuy.

The last detritus of my ill-starred gig with Cock Czar Games washes up on some lonely gaming site. We have a long way to walk back to the car.

P e r y s t a l s i s . . .