In the city
where little boys
throw rocks
at swans
floating stupidly
in manmade ponds
while their parents
chat
in even-tempered
tones
about god
as if god
lived two blocks east
of Beach Boulevard
and was coming
with fruit salad
to next Sunday’s
potluck–
through the streets
of this city
I ride
a rusty bike,
and spit on a truck
that almost
murders me
in the intersection
at PCH
and Goldenwest.
Two teenage boys
flip me off,
screaming.
Minutes later
as I pedal down
PCH
I hear their truck
speeding down the street
behind me,
and then slow
as it gets close.
I can feel
the pain
in the back
of my head
before the half-full
water bottle
even hits me.
I knew
they wouldn't miss.
How could they
after all those years
of practice.