This fucking guy. I mean, this fucking guy

bending over tying his shoes

Moonin' Peter, Paul, and Mary

all the traffic just trying to get up to the next red light after A Hard Day's Work

He's tying his shoes, but the thing is

Is this fucking guy

He's got a peace shooter. Ass pocketed.

I mean, it was a 40 cal…looked like 10 inches, just sticking out like he ready to pull it somewhere

Well, by the time the cops got there, there he is, and he's reaching back, and they're reaching for their weapons

He pulls out a handful of shit

And they shoot him

But it wasn't shit

It was chocolate

A gaggle of 'em on the sidewalk

to share street gossip, a high and maybe some food from Jesus Saves

found objects as momentos of their way, nothing worth enough to steal, too dangerous, but still bling somehow

customized regalia bowed-up demonstrating fearlessness, demanding respect

faded colors on intricate layers of bad decisions, repeated bad behavior in survival mode

street blazed petina, sun bleached and wind blown and frost bit

scarred tattoos, limbs and back burdened from walking all day looking for somewhere to sleep

or walking all day looking for a place to get and use more and no sleep

years worn like rough-chiseled medallions,

trophy for surviving themselves and each other and the system that tries to help

Take the A Train, walk around Union Stations, down and back up through the bus depot across Wewatta Street