Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Randall Horton
14 th and Park Road, Washington, DC:
A Day of Observance
Five days straight through wind and snow we have hidden in the umbra
of gray clouds—inhale crisp air only when a slow wheeling hoopty enters
the block from 14 th , windows rolled down and a split second to exchange
product for dollar bills, and back to the storefront crevices we return.
Last week Dirty Reds got popped, his left testicle exploding from the
compression of a .44 long. Sunshine and Pudding stopped breathing in a
drive-by. Big Foots served an undercover and was immediately escorted
to mandatory jail time in Lorton. Still, this is our life profession—but
today there is a moratorium on our block, a stand fast on shell casings
and turf ownership. Instead, we huddle in Ms. Trudy’s apartment,
watch black-and-white footage of King while she remembers being
thumbtacked to a wall by a jet stream of water as German shepherds
reared their ugly fangs. You boys don’t know shit ’bout the ’60s, she says.
On her television we see the roped-off yellow tape in a Memphis motel
conceived by an assassin’s rifle. We know this jaundice color of death.
And this man offered and executed the ultimate sacrifice: life. His
vision is not ours, but we give dap, mad love—knowing we are willing
to die for much less.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 73