4pm

the drunk man staggers, arms outstretched, a wobbly jesus down from the cross, shakes his paperbagged beer at a little girl who pays him exactly no mind, then trips, veers into the pinkplastic all-the-time yard sale. two men drape across several steps of the stoop and watch him, watch over row after row of toys so filthy no amount of bleach could redeem them. five dollars says a sign attached to a wire rack with sliding wooden beads. five dollars.

the smell of paint from the body shop across the street is heavy enough to taste. it sits on the tongue like a spoon and the fumes may well wake the dead trying so hard to rest across the street in greenwood, bordered by black iron spikes taller than a reasonable person would care to reach, keeping the dead from running amok and keeping the living from spending time in a lush quiet place any time after 4pm. but walk along those iron bars long enough and there are escape hatches. subtle little gates built into the bars, invisible unless you're looking for such a thing. they are padlocked from the inside for absolutely no rational reason. who escapes a cemetery?

little boys sit on the steps of holy name church, three at a time or four, chewing straws, squinting against the sun and the lies they tell each other. they wait, all of them in blue trousers and white shirts, for the ice cream truck that will drive by playing "turkey in the straw". the ice cream truck that neighs is one block over and so they will never know about it. but it is friday almost 4pm. they are children. they will trip each other and giggle again as they run for the truck. there will be ice cream.