I walk clutching a bible in my hand, god in the other.
The park dogs sniff the smell of god, while the old men like to look at my bible.
They plead I swirl and flip my hair for them.
I don’t ask why. I swirl and run before I hear their frail small gasps.
Old gangsters that now look like turtles,
block my way home. Their slow shifts impede my walking straight.
I try to act childlike. They cannot linger on my clothes or hair or bible.
Still, I want the burned leather to show conspicuously,
like the sleeves of skin on their dead fingers and lips.