the living dead

a man
with no teeth
yells at you
from across
the street.
his skin
is scorched
like
worn leather,
his bones
tied together
with strings,
perhaps. a
Michael Jordan
hat tilted sideways
on his pharoahed
skull. he yells again
at you, then
stumbles off
the cliff of a curb,
mumbling
something about
money, or God,
the blessed virgin,
or something,
he comes close enough
so that you see
the yellowed
white of his
shuttered eyes,
the crazy in
his pupils,
his parched hand
swings out,
when you don't
respond, but
press on
he yells back at
you, fuck you
faggot,
then turns towards
someone else.
you want to defend
yourself in some
strange way,
tell him that you
are not gay,
but that you just
like to dress neatly,
with matching
or complementing
colors of clothing.
these are not
designer sunglasses,
you want to yell
across the street,
just your
basic ray bans.
but you do nothing
and go get
a cup of coffee
with a splash of
cream, two
sweet and lows.
a small pastry,
heated up, and cut
in half.