You might think you know
Where he comes from
By noting the precision
Of his feet as they
Rest in sandals.
Atop the spattered glass concrete.
Looking at the charisma
Buzzing within his disposition,
You might imagine his room—
The bed sheets and blankets
Sucking on the mattress,
The ugly, throw rug
Nestling into the neatness
The slippers placed neatly,
The rubbing alcohol sink,
The meandering cockroaches
Illuminated on tile shininess—
This all may be the product of keen insight,
But you certainly wouldn’t know
Where the man comes from.
Walking the beat,
You might find him
Perched at one of the spots
That if you were to stand in,
Would bring
The world coming at you
Streaming like neon
Through the squalor
Of this dusty grime district.
You would see loving eyes
Of the curious suburban kitties
And the strawberry burns
Of co-working social service workers.
You would see
Firm handshakes
Flirtatious looks
Vibrant stage frights
You would see
The flatness of those
Who have stopped caring
For themselves
In everyone.
He will converse
With Caucazoids
Cross the street
From the court house,
Who you can see,
Savor their dainty discussions
Striding back into their day
Feeling good about themselves,
He will take
A mysterious interest
In a couple that is
In conflict
Too much near his vicinity.
His words spurt like blood
Sorting out the problem
So that the couple leaves
Feeling good about them selves.
He will speak to
The Project’s management
Sharing silent words
That cannot be seen within
The streaming of the sunlight
So that the management will walk away
Rearranged
To transmit messages
To political connections
Feeling good about itself.
Even the pimps
Walk away feeling good
About themselves;
The pimps, the small-time dealers
Think they know where the man comes from
As he is their shepherd,
And, of course, they will leave
Feeling good about themselves
Without always realizing
What might have transpired.
You imagine
That obituaries are small,
If they end up in the newspaper,
And that those lies
Almost never get read
By the residents.
When you speak to him,
He grandfathers your imagination.
He is funny,
His meaningless conversation
Is captivating
As he wallows with you
Despite his importance.
And when he asks you
To take a walk with you
You enjoy his company,
And he’s nice to you
As he angles his head
From side to side
With his opinions
And then laughs at himself,
And it’s not until later
That you realize
That he may just
Want to kill you.
And you realize
That there is nothing you can do about it.
Of course, you’ll think
You can run back
To you’re 2.4 children
And your station wagon
And your box trim hedges,
The land from which you once came,
But what you don’t realize
Is that these things
No longer
Are real for you!
Out here the only thing you can do
Is what the man wants.
The only thing to be feared
Is the very private place where the man comes from.
As time scurries by
Working down here
You will find
That it is a place
If it is even real
That scares you more than death itself.
You will come to realize
With all the good you’ve seen the man do
Since his stint in the pen
That it is a place that rests
Deep inside the recesses
Of your own heart.
One day,
You will see
Yourself in him
And you will accept this life
Without wavering.
