BEANSTALK
I sat on a bench along
51st street, imaging I was
looking for gold; scanning
some horizon for a place not
seen before. You know all
that - streets paved with gold,
bejeweled kingdoms and
castles all over the land. The
people walking by me were
all the kind you'd want to
leave. Those Asian honkers,
with their yellows and cameras
and sun-hats. Those sorts from
Indiana and places like that,
staring about like they'd seen
a ghost, but just really wanting
lunch. Hot, bothered, tired, and
overheated. With too much stuff,
again, to carry around. New York's
no fun, when you've you're
collapsed on the ground.
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