on a backstreet

He’s leaning back against the side of his sedan, one arm stretched out above the door as though the car were his best girl. There’s a mambo playing, and all around the other men are lifting  beers swaddled in brown paper and shimmying in place, their heads thrown back with pleasure. Now he reaches into his pocket and scatters a handful of bright pennies in the empty street. A few small children rush over at the sound of the fallen coins, squatting to gather them. He watches with pride at what he has caused. The other men keep dancing in place as the song changes key.


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