Willits, California.
Jerky-thin women with bellies and wizened skin in line at the counter to pay for their cigs and Ritz crackers and wine.
One tries to buy an ice cream bar for a kid in a pickup, but the gal at the register with her arm in a sling says no, and pays for it herself
Another wishes her pals and me and the Central American migrant behind me happy Memorial Day, her voice ropey with Camels and loss.
None of them have their teeth.
All of them are happy to see the cashier, hugging across the caffeine shots and lighters.
The kid comes in the screen door, says thanks for the ice cream, smiling, his cap pierced with feathers of something big, something that eats meat.
I walk to my car, pick up the small, ash white moth on the concrete there, and move the quiet thing to weedy grass. You’ll die better there, I think.