(9)
— Originally published in Pangolin Papers, Fall, 2003
Continued from page (8)
Without hurrying, Riley headed down
the middle of the street, turned left at the corner, got into his truck, and
drove to his apartment. Rolling home, rolling home, by the light of
the silvery moon . . .
In the kitchen, he washed sap and blood from his keys and took a beer
from the refrigerator.
He cleaned the saws and put them away, stripped to
the skin, and dropped the knapsack, the bandana, and his clothes into the
dirty clothes basket.
Sipping beer, he shaved and brushed his teeth.
In the shower he scrubbed the last of the sap from his skin. After
he’d bandaged his finger, he put on clean jeans and a fresh
tee-shirt, combed his hair. Action in the bars didn’t start until
eleven. He had plenty of time. On the way out the door, he dropped the
Penthouse in the trash. Happy as the day when we line up for our pay
As we go rolling, rolling home.
TOM'S TALES