'I ain't your lion, you sad sack
ass.' The guy said that, throwing
down some sort of jacket or vest
he'd been carrying. People get
surly, living on the edge. October
sky, dark early light, all of a sudden.
They were moving him out from the
front of their building where he'd
been trying to encamp. I saw their
point. Million-dollar paintings on
display for later bidding, and this
old bum-ster decking their walkway.
What else to do - heave-ho, away.
Curious words he's spoken though.
I detected a wee bit of schooling
somehow in those words - sad
sack ass? I'm not your lion. Even
if he said 'I ain't.' Maybe it was
just 'I ain't, you're lyin.' That
changes the entire equation -
nothing was written down; I
could only go by what