Texture of a Dream by Rick Hartford

It seems like a play, staged over and over. Young men carve up the neighborhoods for the drug trade, Hunting down those who would dare take a piece of the pie. The players die. Their understudies are waiting on the conveyer belt To serve those who deal in oblivion. The chase has the texture of a dream, In an alley behind the brick apartments on Vine Street. A line of cops in street clothes walk quickly, all of one purpose. Like a snake flowing under the windows, Sensing the air. In an instant, things accelerate. They are running now, their pistols in their hands. Has someone seen a man with a gun? A woman exits through a steel mesh door into the alley. She seems not to notice them, As if they have no substance, as ghosts, invisible to her. They squeeze in behind her and bound up the stairs. There is a loud bang. It stops time, for a moment. You find them on the landing. They throw themselves against a door, kicking savagely, Until it is in splinters and they duck inside. The men move into the corridor and then cautiously up the stairs. Turned sallow in the hallway light, they peer into the darkness above. They move on up, their guns in hand, Not knowing what may wait ahead.