Wheels screech & metal groans pothole after pothole with cracks seaming the stuffy roads of the rainy city – the man in front is a boy yet he is a man – the buzz cut with two months growth proclaims his origins & the pretty brown eyes are bottomless – eyes that are to dark for his age – too dark to flash the glimmers of blood & death & war – things he has seen on the sands of another country dog tags chime against the zipper of his black jacket – the tall black man overdressed for the ride says “hello beautiful, where are you from?” – I smile in amusement such an old line to be used but he gave it a good go – so I tell him I’m from Montana & that’s where I’m going back to – the land of Ted Kaczynski cowboys Indians – neighbors to the badlands – the woman on the left asks where in Montana so I tell her – she grew up in Sheridan – the world turns but none of us can run away – the oriental man at the bus stop by Benaroy Hall jabbers that he killed American POWs in ‘Nam – whether it is true or not I do not know & I never will – maybe it is just a bid for attention – a bid that has failed miserably as people stream past him like he is a statue with a voiceless mouth opened in protest – I open the door for two ladies with snow white hair & wrinkled faces – their shining eyes full of life show surprise as they walk through – apparently that is not the custom here – shrubs & greenery flow by the rain spattered windows – you can see the struggle from beauty to the gutters but we all know who will win.

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