(no subject)
When I walk
down the street at night, and I see
a man
scad in black
walking toward me,
I automatically cross the street,
bearing in mind the words of my teachers, newspapers, TV,
my mom “the world isn’t the way it used to be,”
but as the stranger and I
stare at each other from across the street,
we exchange a long blink
and keep on--I look back behind me,
and notice the orange cherry of his cigarette
the perfect stranger on his way home, perhaps,
from a friend’s house, from a corner store to pick up cigs?
Taking a final drag of his smoke
only bent
on harming himself.