Wednesday, 7/28/10 - Butt

Like so many things,
His name was left,
Packed away,
Inside what was once his home.

So we call him,
By the street he occupies.

Today his name is Cleveland.

The grit he lives in,
Has worn down his language,
Leaving sounds,
More guttural,
More angry.

His words are blunt,
With too many consonants.
He uses them to bludgeon,
And to bruise,
Not to cut,
Or to pierce.

His words have no point,
No sharp edges,
They are just random punches,
Better for boxing,
Than for fencing.

Your morning latte,
Al fresco,
Sits,
As you watch him,
Pinballing,
Closer.

He hurls his hurt,
With such force,
That you look away,
Shy away,
Become afraid.

The thrust of his voice propels him,
Eyes darting,
First to the gutter,
Then receptacle,
Sidewalk,
Planter,
Until.

He stops.

Wordless.

Quick glances,
All around,
Then the quick snatch,
Of a cigarette,
Still smoldering,
In an ashtray.

And he is gone,
In a puff of smoke.