＃５

The heartbroken waitress scratches her homewrecker’s number on receipts ‘til her pen runs dry. Three men will call, the type to see themselves in running mascara and min-wage apathy. Outside, broken on the heavily plasticked gutter, an evictee finally loses his will to beg: no passerby has met his gaze since Tuesday, his plight unreal to them, a guilt-trip borne of solipsism. Two pigeons squabble over a cold fry and the larger one wins.