there's an Asian
man who walks
the mall with
circular glasses
and an abysmal
stare.
I wonder
what he
does for
a living.
there's a coked-
up addict yelling
at me from the
tower near the station.
I wonder where
he stays at night?
there's a bloating
red man who weights
a ton, forcing himself
down the hot and
humid highway.
I wonder who
he goes home
to at night.
there's a man
looking at me
in the mirror who
pretends not
to know himself.
he's no puzzle,
I know him well.
YOU ARE READING
BEATNIK: A Poetry Collection
PoetryThe first book in the "Beatnik Trilogy" of contemporary poetry collections.
