The stoplight turns red.
      I wait, eyes nudging pebbles across the cold pavement.
                      Goth girl, short, stocky, attitude laced.
               wearing green and definately not her color.
                        My eyes wander off of her and onto
         the trains tracks.
                             She pops her gu(n)m in my ear, Brooklyn accent.
         What Do I Play?
                      My guitar case hangs eavy in my arms, Bass I tell her.
  She laughs, a kind of rasping and heaving,
              a vomiting churning noise that makes my taste buds cry in horror.
                               Play accoustic guitar, she tells me.
                               The ladies will love you more, she tells me.

             I take a step back, and she doubles over, cackling.
      My heel connects to her jawbone, and a Dodge Charger bowls over her,
putting her out of my own misery.
                                 The Light turns green.
      I step on her pelvis, crushing her hip bone on my way home.