THE SHIT THAT’S FUCKED

Cafes were open. People were sat at tables out on the pavement. That’s where he was. I hadn’t seen him fifteen years maybe more. And now he was back, in town, eating a curry, not looking up as he did so.
‘Hello,’ I said.
He raised his head, sat back. Took a look at me.
‘Hello,’ he said and then turned to the table next to him on the right and started talking to the men were sat there.
I moved on taking the hit in my own mind, wondering if he took any responsibility for what went wrong.
Further up the road one of my sisters standing under a bridge where pigeons perched, their eyes on the action below.
Through a group of white youths I came to the cashpoint around which a group of black youths stood. They parted when I stepped forward my card in my hand.
‘That shit’s fucked,’ said a voice behind me.
‘That shit was shit from the first,’ said a second.
‘What shit you talking about?’ a third.
‘The shit that’s fucked.’