A Dallas Girl's Exit
This is where people come to take pictures of the street where they killed another Kennedy.
They want to see exactly where his brains blew on to Jackie O’s lap.
A high of 108 degrees.
How are you surprised that downtown is depressing?
From the outside it looks like something your mother bejeweled in the 90’s.
Exactly. Flashy with no creative direction.
Just like these wedges. Just like these daisy dukes that march me down the wrong street.
Past the Greyhound station.
All the displaced and the wanderers sleep outside on benches or against the building or on the ground. They sweat all day. They even sweat in the nighttime.
They sweat sitting inside the McDonald’s across the street.
Crossing Main and Jackson.
The sound of a truck’s horn overpowers the street’s competing mixes of Hip Hop and Tejano.
Two manicured nails rise to meet his gaze. Bright, fake and red.
I’m sorry Jackie O, that you ever had to come here.
112 degrees now.
It’s quiet on the sidewalks. Too hot to talk.
A security guard standing near JFK’s demise calls from across the street.
He asks how I am.
For whatever reason I’ve still got something to smile about.