stillfugue

Heavy, black
sweater, to the knees.
August, but styling with curls,
the kind I love to have
ricochet off my face,
but the arms are crossed,
malingering, perhaps in disgust
at the short, eager guy with vomit
turquoise shirt and solid kelly green tie
who reminds us: we love the man
in the fourth window from Main, in the musty
bank building with crumbling concrete killing
insects who are always busily hungry in August,
and the man, that broken down man, gone,
always wearing a brown sack over his head,
watching all of these bipeds cross here or there
before or after meals always on path to Starbucks,
leaving, the man, an eerily sick feel to the rest
of his office with pictures of a beautiful
family, too far away for us to judge, as I rest
to judge the man of more than 80 years who looks
to cross the street, I presuming he can’t walk,
seeing his blurry grey and white pigtail under the
beefiest black hat that stamps the man 40 years
younger, and when he crosses, he jaunts and jigs,
and I see all of the folds in his face and see myself
carved to bits from my razor, staring at massive puddles
of blood in my bathroom looking like a map of Minnesota,
and the Yellow Freight truck guy is trying to figure out
how to turn around in an opposite direction, he driving
so hard, he spinning the city I live in as I eat too many cookies.

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I like all of the great things they do at dverse Poet’s Pub, and tonight, they have open link night, so I thought I should put one up. Check it out – There are amazing people over there.