The Alley

He looks out a window from his rented room; the street below has no traffic; the bells of St. Patrick’s have yet to ring. This gray day offers no hope.

Two cats hissing at each other in the alley as bums walk by collecting garbage from big blue dumpsters with rust on the hinges; the two Mexicans open the dumpsters quickly making a squeaky sound. They take their goods; beer and soda cans placed in a grocery cart; nails and screws spread out below their feet; cheap dress shoes which have mud and white streaks on them from doing labor jobs; no socks.

He looks out his window. A yellow van goes by. It too makes it’s way down the alley. Slowly driven by a black man, it makes no stops. The van just creeps along like a turtle emerging from a river. Slowly pulling up behind the two short Mexicans. They look behind them and give him the finger; say words in Spanish; they come to a halt.

There are no more words spoken. The fat black man gets out of the yellow van and pulls a gun from his baggy pants, declaring this to be his alleyway. In fact, he declared all alleyways in town to be his.

I hope he do build that wall, the black man with the golden front tooth states. Send y’all back to Mexico, he shoots his gun off into the air and goes back to being silent. The Mexicans leave their day’s possessions behind and quickly walk back to the main street.

He looks out a window from his rented room. This gray day offers no hope.

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