I watch the palm trees dance in the wind. Their tops like rough, bristly broom heads.
People see beauty in these trees. The icon of beautiful, sunny Southern California; silhouettes painted atop a backdrop of periwinkle perfection.
But I don’t see it.
I see popular skinny whores with frisky, lice-infested heads of hair. Except, instead of the lice, they’re rats.
Rats with their nests of yarn and pigeon feathers and pubic hair.
It’s on these days, these windy days, in which I don’t mind the palm trees.
If all works out, and I have my way, the wind renders those damn rats homeless.
I envision disease-riddled feet reaching for the fronds that were once its home.
The wind does the rest.
Flying through the air, the rat says goodbye to the world, as the gust propels its body into the car’s windshield below.