3735. AND NOW THE BIG ONE

AND NOW 

THE BIG ONE

As I write, as I swear, as I utter:

now is the moment before me  -  on the

curb nearby, that woman is buying wine

in a paint can. I do swear. It's true.

Near to that, a $4000 BMW motorcycle

is for sale on the sidewalk - a 1992 K

something or other. Not bad at all, nicely

kept, mileage not much. Across from that,

the Tickenor Art Gallery shows nudes as

clowns and still-lives with trains going by.

The walls are made up as faux-distressed,

as if we (all) lived amidst a revolution.

I am beaming, for I really do love all this stuff.

Winsome girls in Summer clothes glide by, to

sit for coffee or small lunches. Overly-strange

dude'd men, with tattoos and heavy-frame glasses,

a tophat or two, they too pass, alone or together,

or hooked to some woman or man. Who knows?

I want to scream out for something, anything:

'Does anyone here know me? Would anyone here

give a damn?' A singly scary black guy does sidle

up, asking for 'small change for water?'  -  enjoying

his odd integrity, I give him 50 cents. He takes it,

in an abject, humble way that makes me,

already, sorry for nothing

so much as myself.