James H. Nichols
Boulevard pt. 3
Scant hill sandy above pinetree jumbles, the road slicing the hill ground to sky in a heavy swath
of humidity stench but the rain wouldn’t come, wouldn’t breathe into the hot as it would on other
rainblessed stinky nights when we sat on the porch and rambled stupid on beer, high on ozone,
high on the promise of forever gone again.
A dying referendum flaring up in a dying last breath, a dying pink sky burning behind the buildings like you-know-who. We stopped, gawked, took photos, smiled – for five minutes we knew God; five minutes later He was gone and our phones were vibrating.