Street Poet

I see you coming,
a full block away,
and I see you see me.

Your grimace
tells me that
you have already
judged me,
sized me up,
and wished you
had crossed the street.

I do not
blame you.
You have been
hit up at each
successive intersection
of downtown by the
out of luck
as well as the lazy.

The panhandlers
have worn you down;
made threadbare
the compassion
of your youth.

Each story a
little sadder than
the one before,
hungry,
out of gas,
a little shelter,
a dying child.

I see you
coming,
a full block away,
reaching for
your cell phone
to put up a wall,
but I am not begging.

I clutch the homemade
chapbooks firm
in my hands
that I sell
too cheaply;
my heart and my soul.

I sell verse
on the streets,
the place where
I live, and I have
judged too.

At first I would
only approach
the dread locked,
or the skinny pants
canvas converse
tennis shoed,
or pairs of
well dressed men
who smiled
as they looked into
each others eyes.

At first I would just nod
when silver haired ladies
or camouflaged men
past me by,
I judged them because
I was worn and patched
and torn again
by others like them.

I thought
they would not
like me.

Slowly I learned that
art is not small,
the ones that love it
will fit in no box.



So as you move to
pass by me by
I smile, and ask
"do you like poetry"
and am pleased
that you stop
just long enough
to look at my work. 

Lament for the Closing of The Flying Burrito

The old Burrito
is gone,
gone the way
of Butch Casidy
and Classic Rock;
of Kennedy
and the kin
of my childhood.
In its place
Redbones,
Cajun culinary
aromas,
and four bar blues,
bartenders who never
wear those
tight pegleg pants-
so there's that.
Never though did
I think
I'd see mukluk footed
waitresses rushing
table to table
with piping hot pots
of coffee for
Mom and Dad,
smiling that
commercial smile;
for snot-nosed
tag-a-longs who
would clearly
rather have
fast food meals
that promise
happiness
and a three inch
likeness of
the latest animated
film star.
No more Tall Boy
cans of beer,
even those that
perch at the bar
with feet resting
on yesterdays
brass rail are
catalogue boys-
Metros who drink
supposedly opium laced
liqueurs and
Redbull.

The Burrito is gone
for good or for bad,
but like new and future
ex-wives,
I embrace the change
for better or worse.