505 Streetcar

On Sumach, blinking strings of Christmas lights hung with old twist ties light the cracks in broken windows and split veneer, a half-moon is on its back rocking in the severe cold warning at the edge of the tenements near the misplaced Mercedes Benz dealership marking the cross into civilized territory and we still avoid eye contact, the look of disgust on one guy’s face is palpable while he stares at a sex worker who’s staring at me because I’m an easy target for her amusement, white-knuckling my purse, sweating though it’s cold, until the streetcar shakes and screeches into a turn on Broadview, out of the projects, to the station where we burst from the doors and start breathing once our feet touch ground and we part with a secret we can’t tell, like drunk strangers who fuck and wake up hungover, pull on our clothes and slink away.
Trasie Sands