I only remember snatches; how hot it was;
the peeling dark green shutters that opened
onto the street; drinking my cafe au lait
beside the hole they left wide; watching
tourists carrying disposable beverage cups
along Decatur Street, cheap beads
hung around their throats; the smell of beer
and Hurricanes; laughter; bits of garbled
conversation running together like thin paints.
I barely noticed him at the crosswalk-
only a snip of a boy, maybe eight or nine.
The driver didn't notice either, until
he was a blur of blue jeans and dark skin
arcing over the hood of her late model sedan.
His sneakers remained on the pavement,
untied laces draped like vines.