I will father my own son.
He caressed his head with the hands that would assist this birth.
Garbage was still on the street. The strike continued. Smoldering piles and bursting bags filled the alleys.
There was malevolence to the way it lingered in every direction.
He bought a newspaper from a booth. The corner had the typical spread of rotting produce and black bags simmering in the heat.
My son is a priest
The newspaperman was telling him this.
He runs that church a couple of blocks away. No windows since the riot. Still they continue on offering hope throughout the neighborhood.
The newspaperman slid a pack of gum his way. He accepted it despite not wanting it. Did the man think he was someone else?
Church with no windows offering hope. He would
need to remember these words. Each could be important. The gum will have to be examined. He had been awaiting contact and this might be it.