There’s this frazzled brain, this angry man who lives here, walking barefoot on hot tarmac,
shouting I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch and the whole street melts. And the whole street listens
from air-conditioned rooms, opens and closes whirring fridges, sips lemon and lime drinks,
fizz bubbles popping out of long, cool glasses. There’s this parched mouth, there’s this man
running, and when he reaches the palm tree, he takes out a knife and starts stabbing the trunk, stabbing the air, stabbing the red T-shirt, the balloon, the fallen, bewildered, pink candy-floss.