Death Don't Matter No More.

Under the freeway overpass and behind the first few feet of brush, at the top where the slanted concrete meets with the underside of the above street, sits a torn man, dirty and ragged and watching the red, blue, and white lights flashing in circles around a dead girl in the dirt some yards away, making scattered shadows out of the caution tape and the detectives, the ambulance and fire truck, the few bystanders awake this late or this early, all of them moving their own slow limbs in the night trying to find trajectories and motives in each other with little urgency as the girl was a known whore with a heroin habit: nothing more than in the gutter, putrid, like a soggy sheet of newspaper blown under a freeway overpass and behind the first few feet of brush.