Charcoal

The man approached the table

Dancing to the jazz

Getting down

A funky dance

Wearing a black cloak

Sits down on the rotated chair

Coffee in front

About to drink

He rubs his hair

On his round head

With his charcoal hands

Dirty from the bum’s life of dance

Like a vampire from Astor Place

Sipping the coffee of heated violence

Rubbing his hair

With soiled, worked palms

He sees his reflection

In the window in front

Beyond the steaming cup

And cookies brought to him by far

A crew cut

Rubbed with blackness

And tan clothing

Portraying a son

He casts out spells

And talks to himself

Conversations about the lover’s paradise

And last night’s opening

He is a clergy man

Mother Superior’s bouncer

With an unshaven face

One complete frigid stare

Yells a potion

And becomes an exorcist

Helps them from the evil they once were

As he draws on the napkin at his finger tips

One white from art of below

And the other

New York City dirt

Rising from the chair

Passing him

I slip him a five

And he holds onto my fingers

The clean ones he once had

A few seconds he is my brother

A lover

Both wanted to hold each other

Caress

To cradle each other’s life

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.02.14.04:28:06@NYC

Valentine’s Day