Street Scene on the Fulton Mall

The cab driver watched me from across the street.

He sucked on a water bottle, then drove away,

Two non-paying flies in the back window.

The curb was painted red-blood of a sorrowful brother?

I imagined him knocked down and getting up, not god-like,

But with the stamina of a burro. I imagined the spark

Of his hooves as he headed to the westside,

The edge of the filthy sky burning like a curtain.

I crossed the street. The cracked speaker

Was trying to tell me something. Any other day

It would have been music. Now the voice

Was saying, You got a job for me? I looked up

To the speaker, once used to splash the air with music,

But now a public address system. I felt a coin

In my pocket, and tossed it into the fountain,

The water's corrosive powers ready to dissolve the face

Of the American buffalo. Then I remembered

The curb, hurried over to that marked place,

And discovered not blood but city paint,

A warning not to park-let alone stand-there

Especially on a Friday night. The curtain was burning.

The paleta carts were jiggling a last call.

The mall was closing up. Even the Hispanic preacher

With the weight of centuries in his brow

Was going home. Like Jesus, he had his say,

And the speaker, at tree level, was trying me again-

You got a job, man? A hot wind howled

Between buildings, the best years long gone.