At a red light

This squeegee
wielding boy ignores hand
gestures, so
you drop your guard, along
with the power
window, and he is grinning while
you describe how harassment
feels because – it seems
plausible – if he really tried,
he could show you what that would
look like
. This one, he waves
at your windscreen, is
blurry, and he conjures a rag
like a foxtail dangling from a
rear view into his
jeans’ pocket, saying this one is for
, smiles in one devastating
flourish, and escapes through
tamed traffic


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