Eleven p.m. Someone hammering on that saggy roof over there. Nocturnal urban woodpecker. Neighbors ignore the racket. What’re you gonna say? See that 7-11 a few houses down? Guy robbed it last year. With a machete. I ask you, who the hell wakes up and thinks: I’m broke. Where’s my 30-inch, undergrowth-clearing curved blade? After, dumbass hid in a shed across the street. Even our crappy cops were able to find him. Now this man here — he should not be sitting on that porch every day when school lets out, if you know what I mean. Likes the girls. Lady up the street looked him up. Someone oughta call 9-1-1. But they never come. Look at that old lady over there with the bucket: 98 years old. Never eats anything but fruit and vegetables. Gives her cat cooking oil. The old guy’s her son, lives with her. Smokes five packs a day. Won’t buy them at the 7-11, though. Says “Whaddya think, I got a death wish?”
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
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