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POWELL BURNS, USA
Night. It’s wet and foggy.
There is sweat on the woman’s upper lip.
She wipes at it with the back of her tea colored hand smearing her dime store lipstick.
Powell likes the smear.
Powell Burns. Brooklyn graphic artist. Illustrator. He pulls his old
grease stained raincoat tighter around his girth. She reaches out to
him. Powell takes the proffered hot dog. With the works, of course. He bites it.
The snap of the tube steak is the sound of Powell’s youth, growing up way too fast in uptown Manhattan. Central Park, The Apollo, Harlem, The Bowery, Forty Deuce.
New York City is home. His place of birth. Powell has been around this rocky pile a few times. So what? He knows that he’ll breath his last shaky breath within Gotham’s borders.

The woman still has her hand out. The tips of her fingers are stained
from the juice of a thousand dogs dripping with kraut and onions.
Powell hands her two duckets.
“Keep da change, baby.” He says.
“Thanks papi.” The woman replies, her smoky voice sending a warm garlic and tobacco embrace Powell’s way.
Powell turns. He walks away, chewing the memory of a city he still
loves. He walks home, now in Brooklyn, to his wife and his two sons.
The woman puts away the cash and sucks the tips of her fingers. She loves that dirty onion flavor.

Visit Ann’s site at www.annellis.co.uk