Bobby ponders what dawn has to do with
people he knows who are falling asleep.
Sanchez is deft in hustling marks before they walk,
you gotta be careful not to blow it.
Jim has his rounds and Marge her corner
but you can’t call him pimp or her his whore.
Dupree knows no matter what the weather,
he has his clientele always waiting.
Clark likes to move from haunt to haunt and make
like Baudelaire. No need to read, just stroll.
Pool, street jobs, numbers–all for dinero.
God bless the child that’s got its own, she sings,
Billie Holiday on tape, the TV
too loud, Clark waiting for the song to end,
then out the door, breath already stale with beer,
Seattle’s own flaneur back in the crowd.
(And there he found me, –mon semblable,
–mon frere!–and brought me here to stay alive.)
Call me Mel, she said, medication in hand.
From that moment Bobby called her Lovely.
He ponders the words of Baudelaire.
Melindra says. Find words for what you feel
–my double,–my brother!
(18 February 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander