You look down your nose with your
cathedral-colored eyes while your
flapping jowls sling pickling brine
and my hands are dripping from
covering my mouth and my back
is cold from this damp, stinking shirt
and I try to understand your rambling
but amidst the catcalls and birdsongs
of the passers-by it’s hard to
stay so focused on such blitherings
as those of your station tend towards
but God and all, I swear, that
one day I will stand and step and
smack some sense in to you
with the back of my wet hand
and when I drop my quarters in
the washing machine down the road,
I’ll mail you a bill