March 21, 2018, 8:35 PM
Three cops, straddling bicycles in the street, faces hidden by sharp white headlamps, bathed in the amber-red glow of taillights and street lights, talking to the drivers of neon donks on 22s and 24s parked in front of the hand-painted faux red brick garage. All is draped in the sodium glow of night. So am I.
C.B. Crenshaw 