He didn’t last long on the corner
a black dude in a wheelchair
two stumps for legs, about the age
of a Vietnam vet, a big man
probably six four if he could stand—
pissed off, a volcanic island spitting fire
really fierce and letting everyone in the crosswalk
hear it.
Crowds at 4th & Market eddied around him
glanced fearfully, his teeth
spit daylight across the street. People ducked.
Everyone knew he had good reason
but they had their own problems—no little cup
no witty sign no plea—just out there
you could feel what it was to wake up
in the streets, without legs.
There’s a picture in the paper
Clinton shaking hands with the head of Vietnam
cutting a business deal
decades after the war.
Within three days they got him off the corner.
Some are left alone
if they beg within certain rules. This guy
was too much for the city’s face
to face.
There’s a hot thread
in each of us, a fissure of lava
when the hiss hits the sea it’s a sigh
from the middle of the earth
for justice.
Hope’s the dope that keeps you stuck.
Hope your disguise is on tight, hope
you won’t lose what you’ve got
hope you’ll be left alone if you just
shutup.
We’re all eating plastic casseroles.
The signal clicks the light changes.
High-heels hightech running shoes blackened bare feet
step off the curb.
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