WALKING 19TH STREET
IN MY SLEEP
There's a little shed for the not-so-busy
Indian merchant, right there, by Baruch
College and the Armory too. The men
just sit around all day, with occasional
sales - don't get me wrong - but they
sputter and chew on something they
like. It's probably got a subcontinent
name, available anywhere here, but who
knows. Me? I fear for their lives, not
so much mine. How much boredom
can an immigrant take? Any group of
twisted kids from over by the school
can stop by - for a snack, something
to drink, something to keep them going
- but it must be hard too. There are ten
other stores, at least, and I count by
conservative means, right around here
doing the same thing. But this is the
only one in a shed, a happenstance,
sidewalk, thrown-up mess. I'd go there
just for that. And I did once, just to
see the inside. The men were pleasant,
smiles and a nod; but you could tell I
didn't know them and they didn't know
me. Not the hometown crowd, let's say.
Pernicious overflow of alien culture.
That's the one!
-
You need to stop and think; why bother?
Who would set up shop in such a place?
All around them, bells and whistles.
Sushi, pricier foods, fancier Asian places,
a few jiffy-mart type joints, hair and nails,
manicure, spuds and spas. Nothing worth
much, but something everywhere. Yet,
no shed, no sloppy mess, no rambling
building. That's what draws me in.
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