40 cents will get you a “that’s it?” look.
Eyes don’t see from the back
& a beggar will
scope you out from snipers’ range.
That tin-rust can will stain your eyes.
He’s been seen
with 5’clock shadows covering
the lean side of a hungry-look.
It’s been a year today on 33rd & 6th.
Broken pockets
unhealed from empty hands
sag below the waistline
of poverty’s son. He’s danced
alone beneath a stop sign. Found
speech’s freedom
spit across the face of downtown facades.
He lives removed. Broken-record asks
of “Excuse me sir” & “Can you spare a”
receives back turns
& rock-throw looks of "spare me."
His gathering spot is old newsprint & ads
for things today won’t know
by tomorrow. He was born in ’55.
The year Bird laughed
then tripped to death. The year
Clifford Brown became another dead jazz musician.
He’s a nostalgia addict,
walking on cracked wishes of past-living
& holding onto the hand that
never knew his touch. Old love, voice-whispers
& perfume scents invade
the mind with pains’ quickness.
Blame it on love, man. Always blame it on love—
he knows that. & means it.
She was a terrific memory.
But memories only feed
past wants, & stomach-quakes
scream louder than a whistle
on a cop’s lip. He strolls off,
awaiting the wait. Another death-black
crowd of night dwindles down.
Sun’s akin to light, but it never
slides between iron-heavy
hands covering a dented face.