rapid prose poem 28

When the small group of foreign tourists dropped to the ground from a golf cart backfire gunshot wannabe the chain reaction sent even the locals behind yesterday’s dumpsters rotten with wasted California Pizza Kitchen end-of-day leftovers. When they get up their white shirts aren’t crisp anymore. They’re wrinkled with manhole cover designs and oil-based residue black tar tire rubber gunk gets in your lungs and wreaks havoc. Some don’t get up. Let them lay there and writhe untouched but in the heart. Only a small group a subset of the important ones passed on without regard while posting and driving sound-proof small foreign cars.