The cruiser turned inexplicably from Atlantic onto Nostrand against an amalgam of angry cars southward coursing.
The driver was light skinned and skin still young. His partner was concealed.
I removed my earphones and followed.
A man stood at Nostrand and Herkimer with a three inch gash above his right eye, a red river scourge sprouting tributaries and the blood flowing frustrated through the weeksold beard, imagery of an illness that inescapable matures.
The officers pulled several objects from the layers of their uniforms. They mouthed sentences and met no person’s eyes.
Onlooking with light rage outside the bodega, a young white woman, and she too has removed her earphones and her phone hand is gloveless and trembling and we are all hovering at 52 degrees Fahrenheit and the blood is advancing.
The stained staggering man as though stricken with scrupulosity cried and cried “what did I do what did I do.”