Black Car Through Harlem

And every few blocks there's a lone black man with his hands loose in his pockets, eyes shifty but practiced at it so situated on the traffic like hunger. He wonders if you want a taste.  I wonder what he dreams of, awake, in between getting paid and getting popped, his baby moms and the locksmith and the competition. Is it still dysfunction if he buys what he doesn't sell, tries it himself, trembles like a knot of branches while his child sleeps off the bandanad moon . Is it customary to count, from full to new and back like a sound voodoo priestess at that, the sound of counting. I counted twenty, standing alone on the concrete as models or sudden melodies. There is nothing so dangerous as images. Nothing so dangerous and false.