Leaving their cardboard
and beer can condos behind
two men walk towards the signaling device
on the corner at rush hour,
and without a glance
step off the curb at Washington street
not pressing the button
not waiting for the walk light,
the little green figure that flashes
in the black box and chirps
an electronic bird song,
happy flash, chirp, chirp,
proceed with safety
all you happy rats in the Skinner box.
With a don’t give a shit pace
they step over the streetside brook
of thick dark water and trash,
in their blackened street clothes,
the presence of all color is black
maybe some red shows on the jacket
through the patina of time spent on the ground
skin dry and sunwrinkled without moisturizers,
hair dull and stiff with dirt sleep.
They step into the crosswalk
just as the cars push at them,
Honking indignant progress impaired
in their race to a better tomorrow,
stopped in their exhaust clouds by the dirty men
with broken teeth, framing silent words,
eyes cast sidelong warning lights towards the cars,
they make their way impudently towards the little red
danger hand warning them to stop, flash, stop.
They swim anyway against the tide of order
choosing chaos between the painted lines
as the cars stack up,
one against the other and the horns
protest their lack of respect for the rules
going, going always going somewhere important
or home, the cars have a home.
And the street men peer through
the windshields and stare into the soul
of the glass, with looks that say
or just fucking run us over.
are shamed into waiting
on their road of rage to destinations
deserted long ago by the men
without a place, save the street.
This is my house they say and continue
on their wobbly way
spitting yellow brown onto the asphalt
just under the impatient tires.