It is Saturday evening. On a cold asphalt street a
smirking man offers me a flowered paper
with clean, polished hands.
His yellow gray hair is rumpled
The locks struggle to hide his warm,
dark eye sockets. One quick shave of the head would
reveal those eyes to sit bright, in perfect working order.
It is Saturday evening. From the
cement sidewalk I watch
the beaming man with my devil's scowl. I hope
he will go away, and I tell him so.
the torn paper bits alight on his loafers
the arms of his dead-tan raincoat do not
swing or cross themselves.
the grin of his lips
reveal teeth healthy like those of an
expensive horse or slave
And it is not raining.
My stomach will lunge for him,
my motionless fingers will itch for his neck .
Slow strides lead me away from there.
It is Saturday evening, and my house remains unlit. The carpets
on its floors lay still, a tweedy beige. I never notice that
they are filthy.
A gun always waits in a drawer in the kitchen.
The refrigerator never contains pie or birthday cake.