there’s a teenage, fentanyl
addicted
cowboy, sprawled out
on the floor
of the #4 to downtown LA
tasseled, rawhide
leather jacket
hatchet
Howard Hawks face
fist clenching the reins
of a crushed, empty Miller Lite
horizontal
flirting with the bus driver,
a dude named Omar
spewing glorious, fresh
Santa Ana wind
desert dust breath
