What hits a person here, in a white
G-shirt, scalp in nub knots,
Materializing in your blindspot
On the corner of Fourth and Chestnut?
Walking alongside you with a hand
out, exerting
The calm of small-change magnetism.
“Hey fella, how’re you doin’?” he
Grins. In the jab-and-feint style
of predatory
Gregariousness… so the hand is taken.
He grips, shakes it. And you look down.
Shreds of brittle dried blood where
According to mundane scenario
His fingernails stare out.
Jags of cauterized sauerkraut, mangled.
Your hand leaps. Vomits his grip.
(Gut fright is the king of judgment.)
Off at a faster pace than he can laugh.
Street crossed, eyes belt and bursting.
Boy me, is there nothing funnier
Than a white boy who can outrun his money!
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