The Crown City
A lion's mane in ropes and roots, shaking his laugh through the cobwebs of marijuana hanging from the ceiling and climbing out of the lips of his friends. We crowd in and the pipe is passed and the colors are undisturbed by my breath. The lion is watching me curiously and telling me about the bottles of rum in his house on the east side of the city. He says he moved out because he was tired of being an alcoholic, and the west side is full of weed instead of rum and now he can't leave, he can't find another side to the city, he only moves horizontally.