Jesse was still asleep when I got ready for work. I wrote him a note that I’d be back at one o’clock. I set out some orange juice, instant coffee, and toast with a little butter on the side. Yes, he had Phillip’s nose, and lips full of some flavor I hadn’t yet tasted. But where is Phillip? He’s put away safely now. Have you seen him? No. What have you done to him? Nothing. He’s your brother, isn’t he? I don’t want to get involved. Girl, what are you hiding? I don’t want to think about it anymore. Oh, Ruella, ain’t you ever gonna learn? I guess not.

Lonny

Lonny

You can’t walk on 12th Street no more on account of the leaves covering the ground. Even in Abingdon Square just this side of Key Foods where only two or three maples give shade there are leaves everywhere, and when I walk outside I step on them. Some stick to my heels and scratch against the ground in a hurt voice. When it rains the leaves turn to mush and dirty my sneaks—not Adidas, but cheaper ones just as good. Even inside houses and buildings you got leaves brought in by all kinds of people. It’s October, the season of yellow, copper, gray, and red, real red. The leaves are cut-off hands curling up like fists. If they grab for my sneaks, I just walk faster and harder to get them off. Like that faggot reaching for me out of the dirt and shedding red like some gray bone tree. You know the trees I’m talking about. You’ve seen them faggots. They all over this city like flies on shit. You hear the scratchy tumble of red leaves everywhere until someone rakes the place clean. Don’t let nobody tell you that leaves don’t talk. They pile up on you like something or someone is gonna burn.