G.A. Scheinoha

Outsourced

Here in this alley, a world in itself away from downtown, where sound is muted, the horns and rumble of traffic distant as memory, life is lived only in a canyon; between brick walls, a ceiling of sky blue enough to hurt, a smoke stack juts upward, a finger thrust squarely into the mind’s eye.

Puff of smoke rises
From factory chimney; swift
Flight of startled crows.