|
The big boy on the welfare cart, |
|
Takes up three quarters of a seat, |
|
And the junkie chick hangs on for dear life, |
|
She is nervous and somewhat wobbly. |
|
She's got track marks on her arms, |
|
They tell all about her past, |
|
Will she be here next year? I ask. |
|
She's suspicious and onto me, |
|
Craning to see just what I'm scribbling, |
|
The signal cord nearly rips off my head, |
|
As she yanks on it with all her strength. |
|
She is angry with energy, |
|
Everclearly on her way uptown, |
|
She is wearing a gawk and frown. |
|
Her pencil thin legs clicking together, |
|
Like a wind chime in a wind storm, |
|
Is this of the norm? |
|
There she goes out the back door my birdlike eye scans the welfare cart for a new source of inspiration, a point of interest until I reach my final destination. |
|
Just who will be next? |
|
For my character assassination attempt? |
|
Just who will be next? |
|
How about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the plunge. I said, how about that one legged bridge jumper who broke his good leg in the plunge. Yeah, he'd make a good character study or his he busy studying about me? |
|
Now I'm the one craning to see if he's scribbling about me |
