Sirens. Cops fly by. Ambulances respond. Some cars pull off to the side. Bums on Broadway search for cigarettes on the ground, in the trash cans, pennies pop up.

Old motel signs with torn neon letters. BBQ and fried fish joints on every other block. A black kid stands barefoot on the sidewalk. Mom yells at the child. She goes back to talking on her cell phone. Her hair in curlers.

A line of vehicles parked outside the food pantry. People waiting to be fed. Plasma deals only go so far. White chicks with bruised legs on a hot day show their goods. Walking along Broadway looking for another ticket to punch. Another score to settle.

Liquor stores where transactions are made. SNAP cards turned into currency. Gun shots go off. And again, we hear sirens. Cops come out of nowhere. Ambulances carry the dead.

And at the Greyhound station, a few lost souls wait to land in another town by morning. Different city. Same deal. Night falls.