Street roots., November 08, 2013, Page 14, Image 14

Street roots
Nov. 8, 2013
Dignity
by Steven Barry
Lazy Grasshopper
by Nick Sullivan
I am the ultimate procrastinator
Nothing to be proud of I’m told
The grasshopper, my patron insect.
The ants are the ones I beg for food.
When the summer sun wanes and the autumn breeze blows
I wait in the park for a friend but...they never show.
There’s a scrappy, beat-up whodunit novel
Someone left sitting on the stoop.
The Earth travels around the sun
One and a half times while I sit finishing the crime story.
A mind distracter.
Leaves rustle and change color imperceptibly
Each leaf only falls once
And the tree misses the leaf
So it makes it anew.
At sun up, I stand, leaving my mystery novel
And walk away to find something to do.
It’s a challenge to look like
you are going somewhere when
You are where you are going.
The street filled with others like you,
Grimy, proud, hopeless, hungry,
And starved for a glance, a greeting,
A buck, not a sneer for looks reminding
you of your invisibility. Blindsided by
“Get a job!” You scuzz not spoken
but there on the tongue’s tip.
Always hungry, not starving, hungry
For fresh, a leisurely meal without
Shouts and slamming of fists and
Jumbled talking to no one anyone sees.
Napkins of linen, not paper, linen,
White if you had any say, and starched,
Sans any stains as it lies unfolded on your lap.
For the uncounted time the shuffler
You have your names for the regulars
Blocks your path, hunting for cigarettes,
Moving on when you remind him,
Again, you don’t smoke.
You plan no further than that day,
Tomorrow brings you knots of despair,
Of uselessness, of more grime,
Of being a throwaway, of how
Tired you feel and how much your
Damn feet hurt. The shoes, they
Were free but cheap is cheap and you
Took them anyway without a pause,
Stuffed under your coat and walked out,
Ready to sprint away with any
Hint they were on to you.
You stink. You don’t smell it as it’s you.
You can get accustomed to anything if
You have to, but you stink, people step away
From you, frowning, noses scrunched in disgust.
It’s not like you pee on yourself, there are
Those, but sweat on sweat on more sweat
Gets rank and a daily shower is a pipe dream,
What with that interminable wait for tokens,
Then the line for a washer and dryer,
And what are you supposed to do
When you wear the only clothes you have?
No shirt off your back from you,
Not when it’s your only one.
It’s the old ones that really get to you.
Tiny, barely smelly pit high
To you, arms weighed down by bags
Filled, who knows with what.
Unnaturally wide, she wears her three
Coats, dressed for a blizzard in August.
She doesn’t speak, but scowls and
Growls her warning if you come
Too close. She stares with fear, with
Distrust, unaware of the curb
She tumbles off, bags flying every
Which way, revealing her books, an orange,
Folded plastic and paper bags, a pair of
Not-so-clean socks, empty pop cans, tiny pencils
Held tightly by a green rubber band.
You stop and offer your hand,
Her sand-papery paw in yours,
Boosting her upright as she checks
Her knees-for blood? You gather her things,
Holding them before her like an offering as
She grumbles a thanks and skitters on,
Where to, only she knows.
O ld H ip p ie s
by John R. Brown
For years, these hippies have congregated under the bridge
In the park, in the long sharp afternoon shadows,
In their buckskins, their fringe, their granny glasses
For so many years that the buckskin is cracked
The fringe has thinned out like their hair
And actual grannies wear those glasses,
They know me, and used to invite me to join the circle,
But I am only a respectful witness to their ceremony.
Years go by, twenty hippies sat in that circle
On the ground, chanting and passing the pipe,
Now half that many, most of whom can’t comfortably sit cross-legged
Still chant and smoke and pray for peace.
My friend George, who would be their leader
If these beautiful people believed in leaders,
Used to resemble heroic Jesus from “King of Kings,”
Now looks like Gandalf, who is also in the movies.
Old hippies never die - they just go up in smoke.
Just Geometry, Probably Trig
by James M addox
But you were just geometry, charted out cartography
Twisting through the pretzled parabolic curved analogy
While I straddled the fault line between wisdom and hypocrisy
Stitching the embroidered songs of everything taught to me
T o g e th e r
At
The
ini lable
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