5793. THAT HUNGRY FELLOW

THAT HUNGRY FELLOW

He's playing the high-hats in his accordion band,

claiming he needs money to eat, and to feed his dog

as well. I'll give him a dollar for nothing but if he

harms that dog his face is dead. Standing by that

Bloomingdale's glass window he'd better run

wide if he wants to hide. There a cop station

right around the corner too  -  the Subway Bar

still rots on the corner, the place where Billy

Martin used to hang out. After the Yankee games,

it is said, as a point of pride. He'd come in there

and get drunk and start bragging : east side rich

boy, baseball dragon. I remember when he died,

running that truck of his, in a drunken stupor,

off the road by Binghamton, NY. It may even

have been New Year's Eve. I forget. Somebody

else was with him. Ask them.
-
This guy is slumping on the curb, with his
sad dog sagging there next to him, looking beat
and forlorn. The dog has nothing; the guy smokes
a cigarette at eight bucks a pack. Not bad for 
a homeless brat. I don't mind, really, throwing the 
bums a dime and all that, but it's long past the time 
for any motion now : the plans are already in the 
Heavens and the scriptures written in the heart. I 
swear, if he harms the dog with his homeless 
stuff I'll take him down for my dollar.