tarnished brass bracelets jingle on your wrists,

over your shoulder you carry

the same scratched leather satchel

full of papers and books.

worn sandals on naked feet.

even now,

i recognize you in an instant.

 

it’s winter.

you keep well in the background.

between shelves M-Z in biographies

you are not at risk.

 

you have had your share of abuse

and are weary of it,

though not afraid.

 

the red letters of a franchise bar

reflect in the deep black tar

of a recently paved parking lot.

another new strip mall.

the evening is patiently enduring

the loneliness of a friday night.

 

people climb out of sport utility vehicles

half the size of their houses, i assume,

and file into the barnes & noble

for a grande non fat latte

and some magazines or bestseller titles

to while away the hours.

 

and you, in the background,

leafing through

a mussorgski biography.

how in the world this got there

you can’t imagine,

then Frank Zappa,

but that’s not why you came.

 

finally, your head clears.

you carefully deposit yourself

in an armchair.

still, no one pays attention.

the anxiety subsides.

the numbers start dancing.