Looking up a sagging set of wooden stairs at an
elderly man, blade thin except for the small planet of his belly beneath a
sleeveless tee shirt. Gray pony tail dry
as sisal twine. Says he needs eight
cases, Pure replacement cartridges, had his water tested last month, got a good
lead reading. Gem of a morning we agree,
things will heat up this afternoon for sure.
Says friend of his will be over later.
They still plug in and jam. Play
in any bands I ask? Sure, played in lots
of ‘em! Ever hear of Black Powder? Drop Forge?
Blues Insurgents? I hope I
haven’t disappointed him too much. I
figure there’s a better than even chance he’s jammed with someone from Grand
Funk Railroad, but think better of asking.
Pulling away from the curb accelerating past dilapidated houses
sandwiched between overgrown lots, I wonder who’s left to complain about the
noise.
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