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You kneel down on the fresh cut grass and the cool cotton, and the man’s hot penis is in your mouth. opera The man’s dog is slurping water from an aluminum bowl and the cars pass on the distant overpass, and without turning to look, you know that in the fading light the mass of headlights appears like a candlelit opera procession. The evening sky is stained with gray cloud, and he has a firm grip on your head. You touch a scar running down the side of his left thigh. He tells you, hurriedly, that he opera was knifed by a burglar in his divided Jerusalem. He will never go back, he says. You had run the garbage disposal while he complained about his wife’s medical bills still dropping in the mail. The man has retained a lawyer who is going to screw Kaiser Permanente. And you think about big corporations and white men in blue shirts carrying on only what dead white men in blue shirts have done before them.
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