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on the prowl.

Past the barber shop, on the left, that street with piss and pretty-trimmed trees trimmed to a perfect square, an abandoned house, the sign above the door says “Newsagent,” some of the letters missing, so you see a man sitting on the doorstep, he’s always there, must live in that house, he’s on the phone, some strange language, he notices me, I walk past him, the security guard on the corner eyes us both with disrespect, I ignore them both, next is an empty lot with cars parked randomly, an automated barrier and a mean looking dog on a long leash, I have business here, a legitimate cause, even if you think me strange, I walk between a man and a woman, I hear her despise him for a thing he is unaware of, or so I gather, I pass by quickly, cars stopping for me, a screeching tyre, I raise my hand in defeat, I used to nod too, but that’s no longer the case, a horn honks and it’s all behind us, I’m enveloped in a cloud of smoke, a joint, not mine, I don’t need it, a brush of that coat will suffice, she smiles at me, she has no clue, sadly mistaken, perhaps she should stop smiling at strangers, oh my, there, there, a lollipop lady, I need to get out of here, I prefer the bums, will I be one myself one day, I wonder, antiques, vintage clothing and furniture, no prices in the shop window, free entry, but there is no point, all my stuff’s old, anyway, happy-hours beer, not in the mood to stop, I lack self accomplishment, as I hit a wall, have I seen you before, I wonder yet again.


Enthusiastic photographer. Loves stories too.