In the Alley

     Through a garage door two toilets sit together in a backyard smiling like ceramic dolphins.
     The sun is high and the shadows are short. No one is around.
     A sofa the color of Crayola #47, green yellow, waits for the trash man.
     Though I am walking slowly, too slowly for 53, the gaps in the stockade fences are still fleeting hints—accelerated as the dancing light from a film projector.
     The men in the group house gently float their muthafuckas into the air like quarter notes.
     My cat jumps off the step to welcome me home.