Jacky never had hair

Jacky never had hair on his chest but for in the late afternoon sun, the last time you saw him in daylight, standing by the car in the gas station parking lot, the sun painting his edges white and the down on his chest shimmering like its own worried breeze. The two of your broken magnets turning aimlessly around the asphalt and wind burned plastic, one hundred miles from Los Angeles. Jacky’s car had coasted into the gas station in disgrace. There were two more jokes in Barstow amidst the drift of folks who looked like they had been thrown into a window looking over Los Angeles. Teenage hitchhikers and runaways, lot lizards, and men with fossilized comb marks in their hair stood against walls in the shade with a waxy hopefulness that came from greasy night sweats flash drying on their skin at sunrise.
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