Buster,

It's funny sometimes the life that spreads out over a city.

Sad how easy it is to slip by one another in the crowds,

But nice to think of us all contracting in each other's rooms at separate times.

The kitties.

Cops.

Cabbies.

Shame walks,

And

Puppy trots.

Next door aprons tied to knobs.

Marbled lobbies filled with yous.

Sticky wagon bike patrols.

Corner crushes found on bridges.

Pink haired freshman all grown up.

I like the idea of all of us rubbing up against each other

Just missing each other

Every

Time

There's a liquor store in Pilson run by cats

Well

Two

Two huge white kitties

I know that

One is named Picasso

I think that

Both are doing fine

Seem healthy enough

Not that it was ever my turn to watch them

But walking up those three weathered wooden stairs to my six pack of Tacate, my bag of limes and pack of gums, and orphaned eyes; my chest implodes a little, and my eyes puff out, and my ears buzz back down to the south side, your side.

It's just that one has some black smudges on his cheeks, and I don't know if it's dirt, or second hand smoke, or liver disease, or what. And the other one, he just cries and cries, and scrapes against the leg of who ever happens to be at the register. Like he just needs to be loved all the time. Is that so hard to understand you colorful people of Pilsen? That's what makes him different, that's his lemonade stand, that's his fifty cents.

That's to be respected

Trumpeted

Inked

On

Every

Dollar

So

That

Everyone

Knows

Love

Me

As

You

Have

Ever

Done

Or

I

Could

Circle

Round

And

Die

And the man who holds up the threshold is yelling, barking,

"Come on Picasso, cross the street! time to go! Picasso! Picasso! Picasso!"

I know that man he'll never leave.

The liquor store is dark, and carpeted, and wet. But, Picasso loud, and Picasso shy, they thrive in there like cubes of sugar soaked in instants, swirling through the blackened grounds, Entombed in water hot as hell.

And I wonder if my Buster ended up in a strip club on Lawrence.

A book store in Hyde Park.

A thrift store on Belmont.

The basement of the Chopin.

I hope that's him behind that post

But

There's my bus

Excuse

Me

Sir

I have to

Sorry

Have to

Go,

Skin and Toast

P.S. And the cop who fucked my mother, I see him everywhere.