oom: the hurricane

[27_53]

He doesn't need find much.
He doesn't ask want much.
He doesn't take beg much.


He doesn't get much, either.
it's okay, sir.

there's a city park on the corner of jackson and fifth
and this time of year the snow is thick enough that nobody really bothers to bring their children to play
unless the sun's out
when the sun's out
he sits on the bench with a paper bag full of bits and pieces of bread
and talks to them

(It's easy to dig through the trash cans when it's this cold
Nobody walking in the alley to interrupt.)

they don't mind much anyway
(nobody's hit him with anything this week)

last week it was an empty bottle of brownhe frowned
"no good to me empty"

here comes the story, of the hurricane
the man the authorities came to blame
for something that he'd never done

"Hello, sir."
with their red lights flashing in the hot new jersey night
"Hello."

"Can't do that here."

oh. okay.

He sits on the bench.
you'll be doing society a favor
They pull him off the bench.
that son of a bitch is brave and getting braver

an innocent man in a living hell

oh baby, it's cold outside

and for a long time
there is nothing that really registers
nothing except white and nothing
except sometimes a hint of gray and fog around him
and he is okay with this
because white doesn't hurt
white doesn't bleed like red does on the snow

but he can't hide forever