Rollin’
like I was bulletproof,
on payday night,
I would glide my bike
through the 7th Ward,
of New Orleans,
the street level
as a coffin nailed
down tight as my
knuckles, with 700
in bills folded flush in my
pocket, feeling the crisp
sting of spring air biting
my eyes. I was a drive-by
target, and I knew that
if an old Oldsmobile tailed
me it would be only time
before a gun beaded my head
and someone said
give it up. Then they
could have my wallet,
and the petty plastic
and small cash it contained.
And if I would make
that sacrifice I might
be spared a clean
shot to the skull and ride
with a wide grin, once I’d
again crossed Claiborne
and turned on Carrolton,
reaching down and tapping
that sweet spot where
my 700 dollars had gone
and turned to gold.
LC Gutierrez is a product of many places in the South and the Caribbean, as well as writing and comparative literature programs at Louisiana State and Tulane University. An erstwhile academic, he now writes, teaches and plays trombone in Madrid, Spain. His work is most recently published or forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Sweet, Trampoline Journal and Hobart.