Fat drops hit
my ear and forehead
as the bus arrives,
they spill, they spread
on the dusty pavement,
they pool.
Earthworms will dry in the sun
on this sidewalk soon.
Sprlng raln scourlng
the gritty air,
me,
the street sand and salt,
the oily detritus
of wlnter, pushlng it all
in gutter tributaries
to the Big Muddy.
(Lake and Hiawatha Shelter)
Cigarette butts
crayons sand
candy wrappers
pistacchlo shells
leaves newspaper scraps
pbj crust ln a baggle
straw corrugated cardboard
chewed gum bottle cap
torn bus transfers
used kleenex paper towel
the wealth of nations
Under the gray bridge
Spring troll of I-Ninety-Four,
Wakes up, grabs my wheel
--Scott Hvizdos
(originally published, less than adequately, in the StarTribune, March 22, 2005).
Slouchlng in the train seat
like you're hiding in a duck bllnd,
camo'd hood pulled low over
your face, camo'd pants
over the shoe tops.
The not-so-invisible man.
From train to platform, or
from platform to train
is a quick step
over that thin gap between.
But just there in that space
lives the shift from place
to place.
At the Franklin and Minnehaha Bus Stop
Tattoo man, your body pierced and modified
to the tune, I'd guess, of many months' rent,
skin stretched like sandwich wrap,
branded, dyed, punctured, reconfigured.
Dressed in leather and studs:
I've seen it all before, though not on you--
recognize you from across
Franklin, though I haven't encountered
precisely you before.
The type is so common, I muse, that
It fails to shock--
Such a pastiche of cliches that it fails
to express individualism just as much
as I do.
But then, as you walk up, smiling, bobbing,
saying "Quite the spring day,"
I see, in addition to the standard-issue
nose rings, a nail.
A good-sized nail, maybe 10-penny.
It had been a moustache when you
were across the street.
That got me.
That got me writing.
Three young toughs,
maybe 13 or 14,
stand and kick at the cold.
Big shoes unlaced,
big pants unhiked,
big coats unzipped.
Two dangle cigarettes from their mouths;
the other works a Tootsie-Pop
from side to side.
Hiawatha blues:
The train passing swiftly by
The red light remains
--Ali Gharavi
(Thanks to Ali, a master of the form; and to his colleague and poem-broker Scott, who has a future in literary promotion).