Silver City,
Guy on the street
Asked us for money,
'Sorry, no,'
Says dad.
'Coffee's one block up,'
He shamefully blurts.
We walk in,
The atmosphere
Is hushed--live jazz,
Electric guitar and voice,
Male and female.
I walk softly,
Aware of all eyes on me.
The barista is meticulous,
Greying hair,
Manicured beard,
A polite and careful old man.
I order my Americano,
'The glass
Is chipped
At the base,' he says,
'So don't run your hand
Over it.'
'Thanks,'
I like this place.
Open air patio in the back,
Thunderhead claps,
New Mexico--
Tweaker running up and back
The sidewalk to my left,
Ask's me,
'Do you know
Where I left my bottles at?'
I nervously make eye contact,
Shake my head.
He starts yelling
Twenty feet down the street,
'What the fuck are you looking at?
Don't fucking look,
That's right, keep
Walking, don't fucking look at me.'
Dad and I exchange a glance,
Gathered our things,
And left.
So much for that.
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