Inside me, there's
always this
one man
who's homeless—
filthy, his greentooth grinning
obliviously,
as he pedals and pitches
what you could only
graciously call his
theories of "general relativity."
But what's worse,
there's also usually
another man in there—
with his black
and stiff collar, so
pious, clean, and holy
that he will not admit
the sheer existence of the other
which would first be necessary
in order to ignore him.
From there, it's always
the same old
stomach
ache of a story—
one of them
feeling compelled
to move around, shiftless
and aggressive, but earnest—
while the other
just likes to take
his sweet time—
saying little, moving
penitently, almost
painfully
slowly, as if
on purpose—
so that everyone else in town
notices.
