If you lie down on the dotted line of the asphalt road next to the lobster pound at dusk, you can hear the hum of far-off traffic. The orange bell buoy dings in accordance with the channel current under the cobblestone bridge. Fold your arms over your chest and wait. Judge the weight of the pickup truck with just its running lights on, coming over the last rise in the road. The driver has had a few beers with the boys and won’t be expecting a body dead center in the road. At the last second he’ll apply his brakes and swerve into the parking lot, sending a spray of pea gravel into the cool night air.
minutes forsaken on either side of sunset