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Untitled MAG
106, about a block away
and eight storeys up,
from the window pane
in front of which I do lie,
sat two men.
Older men - worn and torn
from the lives they led
and the world that led them,
I suppose.
Covered in a semi-sweet sense
of a blue-grass city
they sat, and sat
(and sat a little more).
Broken-down faded Jordans
and desert curls said it all.
Glasses too big, and a shirt
too small, with his hat
cocked to the side, sat the first.
In a glassy-eyed daze of scotch
and welfare sat the second.
Together, they ranted and raved,
they cussed and fussed;
about you, me, the city, the sun.
About being out of vodka.
And suddenly a third man
separate in everything
but decay and style of life, entered.
With some sense of consciousness
more so than the rest, he stood;
yet, he seemed as distant from
the city as my home, hundreds of miles away.
The first offered his seat
and the third offered his drink,
as the second sat and wondered
which city he resided in.
I sat and watched as they ranted and raved,
as they cussed and fussed,
about you, about me, about the city, about the sun.
About, once again
being out of vodka.
And the first noticed my eyes;
he caught a glimpse of my glare.
He stumbled and fumbled toward me,
toward where I did sit,
and stared into my eyes.
He said only one thing -
nothing deep, nor poetic
nor clich"d or vulgar.
One simple thought for this moment
evolved in his mind.
He had a glance at the van's tags, I suppose,
and said to me -
"State to State, Country to Country, Planet to Planet -
Gangstars ... is Gangstars, you know, boy?"
And he reached out his hand
and I took ahold and shook it.
And whether or not it was a joke,
or a thought, or a plea for help -
or just the vodka talking - I don't know.
And whether or not I shook hands
in respect, or in pity, perhaps an
agreement of sorts, or to get him away -
I don't know that either.
I do know one thing -
for a second in time
I could see life from
where he sat, and possibly
he saw it from my view, too.
Though, I never truly
said a word.
And moments thereafter,
at the corner of Liberty
and Fourth, at the site
of Stop 106, we pulled away.
The three of them still sat.
And perhaps, they continue to sit -
ranting and raving,
cussing and fussing
about you, about me, about the city, the sun.
About being out of vodka -
and almost out of time.
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