On his corner he wears see-through clothes, thousand-mile shoes and a sun-stained hat.What’s got ya so down dere, missus? Life ain’t all dat bad. He scoffs at my ineffective smile. You wanna share my last smoke? My heavy mood exhales the stale tobacco. A foul scent, heavy with feces and whiskey overwhelms my system. I stand anxious for the cab to come.
On his block he mumbles that he lives a life of gratitude, and I a life of indignation. I’s thankful fer e’ry minute cuz out here its da truth dat any minute could be yer last. I fumble to pull a donation from my wallet. I’s don’t want nutin from you, missus. But it looks like you’s could do wit a lesson from me. His sunken black cheeks and rotten gums chatter their story. I look at my watch.
On his street he walks a half-forgotten path, on an avenue where only wild things grow and once mansions battle their inevitable descent to the earth.You think you’s seen things, missus? I’s got more miles in these toes then you’s got strands in yer hair. I lean against the wall. I knows what yer after. You’s after peace. Well, you’s lookin in da wrong place, missus. I’s can tell you dat fer a fact! His cracked ashy skin peeks through torn jeans. I can see that his underwear are soiled.
In his neighborhood he lives things other people choose to forget. Dat house over dere was burned down by a battered woman, wit ‘er chil’n and husban in it. A crooked arthritic finger points to an overgrown lot of emptiness. And o’er dere’s where da young mothers get paid for dere sweetness on da regular. You wudn’t neva do dat, wud ya, missus? His hot butter teeth click to form a half-sleazy smile. I sit on the curb.
In his city he knows the truth of difference, the reality of faith and the anguish of exploitation. Dis city is just like a woman. It wants ta be loved Right. His calloused fist beats his exposed chest. Love er right and she’ll blow ya til ya moan. Love er wrong and she’ll beat ya ta yer knees. His hurled rock misses a pregnant dog. I’s can tell you’s a good woman. You’s brought a good man ta ‘is knees, ain’t ya missus? I shrug with a twinkle in my smile. I just noticed he’s missing two fingers.
In his place his soul knows of a greatness beyond and the shallows of now. An alcoholic prophet with a nicotine fetish, slurring his prophecies at anyone with an ear to listen. How ‘bout a smile, missus? Ain’t yer next breath worth a smile? His Holy eyes guide his royal stride on a street unseen by the masses. I smile. Ohh wee! He hits his scarred thigh. Look at dat light! I’s never forget dat light. I close the door of the cab. You’s gonna find yer peace, missus. Jus keep on smilin’. A godly promise in his wink. Hey cabby, you gotta smoke? He huffs something about Armageddon starting on Mt. Elliott and Gratiot as he strikes a match. I nestle into the smelly back seat and drive away. Smiling.
