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  • The cars and shacks of Saturday night fill our eyes like berm candy in the apostle piles of the city; it's summer.

    The green-lit fluorescent bulbs go ahead with their mission flickering.

    A long-finned Pontiac pulls up at Room 17.

    A long-legged dame steps out. Her heels are red, they're backless, shivering mules for a Saturday night.

    The parking lot has lanes, spots, even VIP, in a broken down sign written on cardboard like some flea airline, Magic Marker on Carton Wing Airline.

    Down in the devil guts of evening, it all looked possible.

    Now it's night and the seekers are looking for stories and redemption.

    Maybe a story, maybe a glass with something amber at a bar kind of jerry-rigged or even jury-rigged with seedy ties undone bad balloon suited lawyers.

    In the million dollar neighbourhoods. the eyes of the shacks will not stop peering.

    This is forever, this now.

    This moment we caught is our always.


    (Photo by Susan, Aug 2, 2013, back alley in the neighbourhood.)
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