Braxton

Singing in the Rain…

Angry because
he wants pink
sweet and low
packets and
claims I’m “1
minute late!”
A man in an
ice-blue ivy
league prep
sweater begs
“can I have
$25?” and won’t
relent. He’s
homeless… (or
rather, he’s in a
shelter… ie:
‘4 star
hotel’), bursting
with resentment at my
answer: “we’re just
not allowed…”
……………………………..

3 months later:
mud-wet rain
prattles in an iron
corner, and I am
the iron-man of
slow relief. With
assessments.
And assortments
of mints. Foam cups.
Chemical creams.
Talking about their
dreams of black
coffee; clean windows;
a well-lit house
to breath in, and call
their own
……………………………..
And it feels like walking
through a Munch painting
……………………………..
One man screaming about
the fines the world
holds over his head.
Confines of
“the system” that holds
him a fire-giver
of desperation
crucified on’a burning
stick.
……………………………..
So I stick to the plan.
And the man
who asked
for money (near
another client with a
bunny-tie and a 3
piece suit)
enters my
session about
‘how to say no
when others ask
for cash,”
and I don’t know how
it’ll go down….

So I get X to
push back a
firm “NO!” when asked
from Y for
dough (he needs
some help) – watch the
fragile glow
of “prey”
blink like faint
embers in his eyes.

Think of the shades of red
salmon in a downtown
sunrise. How Coleridge’s
“frost at midnight”
can refer to more then just
a winter-glaze.
The snow-blur
haze of white
masks atop
the street, so white,
so… everywhere…
like fresh
fallen sleet: the home-
less on
wet-seats.

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