congregate on the spot without speaking.
A tumult surrounds them:
Tom Timbers, lonely and crass,
cries out ill deeds of the American dollar
and claims Rockefeller was never in the army
Old Joe Redhead sneers at everything except
his T-shirt with a map of the London Underground,
and swats missing the behind of a passing chickadee
I saw the eyes of the hunted come in.
They glanced at us and turned away:
not allowed to stay.
I saw the eyes of the frantic,
waiting for a lover or friend,
shivering in the cold as the carriage clacked by empty.
I saw the uncertain
figuring out how much to spend on their lives.
They decided to chase their own tail
as it was cheap.
Iced-tea Dick Tracy came and went,
his dumb-eyed mistress' bleach
growing back into black.
A dog chewed a pencil and taught me simple joy.
Soup is thrown and sandwiches spilt
and junkies thumb Agatha Christie.
I read Faulkner and wonder about
my biological cycles.
My emptiness spreads like Halloween smoke
through a three level mall
as they tow away a car outside
and my bus takes 45 mins to reach my home stop.
What makes me feel this way?
The mistrialed and the parole officers:
both suspecting all good intentions.
--from the Unofficial Journals of Rick Draper
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