Hungry, hurried,
telephone quarters drop
to spin at my feet.
I grew up poor.
I was taught to be kind.
There’s a fault in everything.
Hunched like Mitchum on a bender,
empty of all I know,
I take my choice of things
I find on the ground,
take a sidewalk tour
for sinister purposes.
As couples rush the casino blocks,
a streetcar tops the spine of a hill.
A squad car U-turns into traffic,
drops their snitch at an alley entrance.
My airport limo friends,
my train-track hangers-on
show no symptoms of
their costly, wastrel situation.
Stalking course confirmed,
I check my cigarette slouch
against the lighter flame,
the mirrored etch of a doorway.
When it’s dark,
I’ll duck across for a drink.
For now, music and
passersby amuse me,
oak leaves fall into
light piles of drying gold.
Moonrise is almost upon us.