Urban Memories
The
first time I moved into the city, I was a
very
young 18 year old
naïf. Danger
was
not in my lexicon, nor was
caution.
I was guided by
sandal-footed
cult zombies
who
had as much recognition of darkness
as
I did of their
foolishness.
On a cold November night,
we
were warmed by the bonfire of
a
four
story
protest
across
the street where bare pine studs
had
been pounded together
just
that very morning. A man
stabbed
his cousin in the neck at the end
of
our alley, in the doorway where a baker
gave
me fresh baked bread, steaming
warm,
every pre-dawn
morning
and stared
openly
at my
well
covered chest,
asking
me if I was a
virgin.
I
always took the bread.
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