Intersection

The homeless man collects dollars
at the intersection,

holding up his cardboard sign
which says he’s a down-on-his-luck vet (yeah, right),

when the light turns red
he walks up to each waiting car

hoping for a handout,
his eyes look at you from another world

because he lives in another world,
the girl in the convertible,

wearing a skirt which rides up her thighs,
gives him a dollar,

there is lust in his eyes
but only for the money.




1.

I’m waiting for the light to change at Parmer and the I-35 access road,
taking a left towards Dell. My 2009 Dodge Ram Texas Edition is just
days off the lot, six cylinder, a sort of compromise for those of you who
are worried about saving the planet (Too late, I scream in a high-pitched
voice!). Anyway, so this redhead is stopped next to me in her Miata, you
know, that orianal sportscar, her skirt is way up her thighs, panties almost
visible. She does not see me slobbering on myself. She’s too busy giving
the homeless guy what he wants. The damn light turns green.

2.

In this poem, we come to grips with three desperate characters, the
homeless man who got to this point in his life who knows how. The girl
who’s got a heart of gold and thighs to kill, and the horny guy who works
at Dell (good luck finding a job after Dell closes its doors in December,
bozo), who wouldn’t give a dollar to save starving African children, curses
traffic lights (except now) and the poor. Oh, the cosmology of intersections,
and what it brings together if only for the length of a light cycle. Go on,
you got a green light. Contemplation begins again at the next light. See you
there…