Denver on Sunday


They walked through Denver; one carrying a beer, the other wearing blue sunglasses. The city was absent, dry.

“Why aren’t laundromats open in St. Louis on Sundays?”

“This ain’t St. Louis.”

They went down a street, found a couch, and sat.

“So what I’m saying is, there’s nothing out there, beyond us, I mean.”

“What about the laundromats?”

“The what?”

“The laundromats, in St. Louis?”

“Shit, you haven’t heard a word…”

A crowd passed the alley, unknowing and free. Red signs, cowboy boots. The air was sweet and thin, the light was flat.

“It’s just a weird mountain town.”

“With mass shootings.”


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