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.
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
There's a liquor store in Pilson run by cats
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
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
There's my bus
I have to
Skin and Toast
P.S. And the cop who fucked my mother, I see him everywhere.