Sunday Night Runoff

Nearly got ran over by a scooter returning my 24 pack a bottles, while a skinny young Mexican man reaches his tongue down the throat of his overweight dark skin lover. She staggers on the incline slipping on pebbles and pieces of discarded concrete. His hands deep, reaching for the darkened treasure of matted coarse pubic hair. All the while a child plays next to the pair driving a broken toy truck through the ruts of runoff. The family is there in entirety, mom’s cutting chickens into fly covered portions for the night, to sell on the sidewalk to unsuspecting Gringos drunk on cheap beer and Tequila. Brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles witness the night's copulation. It’s Sunday night, by Monday midday the young man’s sobriety pushes him into a corner, hiding, lost in the deep Sunday night runoff encrusted by cement and alcohol. I return home with a cold box of 24 beers awaiting next Sunday’s bottle return.