Don

2:40 a.m.

 

Mickey has one hand on the suicide knob,
a can of Colt 45 in the other. Two wheels
hop the curb, taking out a fence.

 

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

 

Mick guns it down the 405 Freeway,
“You think Niggers bleed like us?”

 

“Black as tar!” I say.

 

Cheryl slugs me. “Shut up!”

 

I rub my arm, What the hell?
I was only kidding.

 

Lights slash the sky, like a world premiere
movie. Smoke’s thicker too. Every ramp
downtown is barricaded.

 

I figure Cheryl wants me to tell Mick to ditch
the whole damn thing but he’s going about a
hundred miles an hour and besides who knows
when we’ll have another burn-baby-burn riot.

 

He doesn’t slow down till we pass the 106th Street
exit where the National Guard stands on a ramp
with rifles, bayonets on their muzzles.

 

“Bitchin’ uniforms,” Mick says.
Then he punches it to the fast lane
and pulls over to take a wiz.