Michael Torres was born and brought up in Pomona, California where he spent his adolescence as a graffiti artist. I heard hisīelt buckle click into place after a moment. The gas and tried to catch up with the hour. Have auto insurance, and their friend asked them Playing low a commercial where someone didn’t I drove onĪnd he put his face in his hands. Other than to start conversation, though neither Like that? He said thanks after shutting the door. Would you even call it afternoon, in a storm It was a SaturdayĪfternoon when I found him walking in the rain. With a woman who didn’t know what she wantedĮxcept some time to think. Tangled in a rain not so different from the storm Handcuffs and felt good about their work. I came to the conclusion that they could not Had not let him wear a suit to the burial. Wonder, from time to time, why the police Nevertheless, to be buried in, I realized To say it like that, but that’s how it happens To his sore feet in those black dress shoes. The morning after my funeral, Miguel waking up He went right, cut thru the lot of thatĬhurch for ex-gang members who every other SundayĪsked God to look upon them again. If he ran, I ran, and I’d go left toward the field I had to ask the cashier for a key to the bathroom. If he took a cup and filled it with Icee, If he went up the aisle with the candyĪnd grabbed a pack of Twizzlers I knew he was Grab two burgers from the food warmer, slip one Maybe he’s dreaming of us aliveĪnd young, walking into an AM/PM. He must be asleep by now, his head against Time, sitting in the front row of the church, near
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