His arrival is foretold in the borders of ancient murals, graffiti on bluecollar bar bathroom tiles, beer left out on his brother’s back porch, blood and chalk on the pavement. Food for a stray. The sky printed on the underside of the King’s road is a poor timepiece for a laughing dog better suited to the open air. He turns up when he’s needed. No, not when you’re bleeding, when he’s really needed. That’s how he sleeps at night. His eyes are gold but that tongue is quicksilver and wouldn’t you do anything for the privilege of its poison, city girl? Be careful. No one alive could eat that much sin and kissing it won’t do him much good, either.

rlb 4.30.17

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