Secret Door

•75/ —and then, there was the time he squatted in a New Orleans court yard, in secret, before a secret door, the color of burnt green. He sat there for years beside a thorny bougainvillea, its prickly arms circling his head as a halo as he perpetually hunched over a reed flute watching men arrive over weekends: paired or solo, wandering within the unmarked door.
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