His voice thunders from across the road
all vowels no consonants
an injured barrage of pain-filled confusion
sure-fire fury and a pinch of glee
Wears an L.A. Dodger's cap over his spongy hair
frayed cut-offs, white socks, sneakers, no shirt
skinny weathered sunburnt shoulders
visible ribs with a potbelly
a wiry free-ranging beard rising
like capitalism all over his enraged face
Scurries up the sidewalk like a runaway limerick
never to conclude, presses doorbells
flips off oncoming traffic, screams at
imaginary people, draws his fingers
like a gunslinger firing endless ammo
spraying oncoming traffic with phantom bullets
I watch him karate kick a trashcan
triumphantly watch as it rolls and spills its
shit across the parking lot of Fred Meyer
I'm no fan of traffic
but am happy for this steady stream
which separates him from me
The other good thing about him
is he keeps moving
commanding my attention
till he swaggers and staggers
in an easterly direction, fades from view
screaming incoherent invectives all the way
another reason to hate the Dodgers
— Larry Crist