the caucasian

on clear December nights
the gas giants cast shadows
this is the land of Dashiell Hammett
where only the caucasian
is entitled to his hard starkness
sidewalk surfaces
of combustible paper
and anger in a holster

everyone somehow
understands his ten cent narrative
and there’s a woman who’s lost out
because what damn good would she be if she hadn’t
and when Jupiter throws her shadow like a spitball
it sticks like graffiti to the lath and plaster
and she is confirmed departed

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