I scatter ashes from my cigarette like memories of home. One more drag, flick it into a puddle gathering at the curb.
I am standing, not turning, the downpour now crashing into the swell of awning above.
Someone across the street, hood pulled over a smiling face, waves her right arm, left hand clutching at the collar of a green coat.
Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.