by Mark McKee

In the park I fed the pigeons until the sky filled with water. Some of it sloshed over the rim and splattered on the pavement at my feet. I heard an old man sigh, turn off the faucet. His massive arm flopped down, the fingers curling, uncurling. Fleas the size of sedans frolicked among the hair follicles. The pigeons began to nibble his fingernails. The old man slapped at them feebly. Grunted. Sighed. A massive voice rumbled, “Not a moment’s peace.” Water sloshed over the rim of the sky again. A large foot settled near my feet, followed by another. The old man pounded across the city. Somewhere out of sight a large door slammed. “Ahh,” said the massive voice. Eventually I heard the sound of snoring.

Mark McKee is from the American south. In his spare time he collects nervous breakdowns. His work has appeared in A cappella Zoo, decomP, theNewerYork, and others. Find him at goodreads.com/markmckeejr.