I counted ninety-two cracks in the concrete near the corner of mission and tamarack I would
have counted more but the concrete soon faded into a dirt path scourged with cigarette butts
and crippled bottle caps and shards of glass Kids ride their bikes down this dirt path It leads
to a cemetery where freemasons bury their own There’s a statue of an angel in the cemetery
and the angel seems sad because her head is buried in her folded arms and her wings are
bent toward the ground in perfect melancholy The angel hides from the dour reality of her
fallen masons I’m not a freemason I only wish I could continue counting the cracks along
the concrete
