Life is too short, too short for this,

Dewey mutters to himself—waiting in a hot car,

on a hot street, on a hot night in Chicago,

watching one gang-banger after another score or be screwed.

The chances of his man, Ruben, showing up

run fifty-fifty, fair odds, still—

Here he comes, low-rider, badass, dangerous.

Ruben's boys slide out of the car, Ruben waits.

They go in. He waits. They come out, stand aside the door.

Ruben goes in, comes out ten minutes later

with what—a grand, ten, a hundred, who knows?

Dewey has what he came for, faces and a locale—

confirmation—enough for the next move.

Dewey drives off, the a.c. killing the Chicago heat.