John Carey
Newtown Noir
King St. Newtown in the nineteen-seventies
when fire Premiums were unaffordable.
“Hungarian Stock Clearances” they called them unkindly.
My wife ran off with the Insurance Assessor
and left me weeping in the ruins of my life.
The hobo who was sleeping in the doorway
was no loss to anyone but himself and had
self-immolated twenty years before. I wasn’t
the only loser. The loan I got from the Colourful
Racing Identity will never be redeemed. I’d have
to limp around the Strip selling drugs for him
or he’d kneecap the other one. I asked the police
about witness protection. The witnesses would kill me
if they got the chance. The bad cop shoved a piece
of paper in front of me and said: “Sign this!” The
good cop said: “Don’t read it. It will only upset you.”
image: Rodrigo Teixeira