1'm sitting on a street bench, wasting my life,
watching a couple of black kids
with haircuts like shrubbery, squatting
and pumping, practicing hip-hop,
and everything's getting vivid,
Maybe it's a poem about the two of them,
I'm saying to myself and then I look up
and there's this other kid
hanging over me like a black moon,
telling me he needs some money, that his car's
out of gas, it's around the comer at the station, his brother
is there, they need a dollar to get home, Just a
dollar man, and I'm thinking, God how I hate this,
he must have seen me talking to myself,
moving my hands, and I start to say,
No, but I'm thinking, Jesus, it's only a buck, maybe
he's telling the truth, he looks honest enough, like a farm hand
or a soldier,, and besides, he's big, he could take it all
if he wanted, and I'm reaching around
for my wallet when I hear him say,
Two dollars, real slow, like he's
explaining something to me,
and suddenly everything's slowing down so fast
he's already halfway down the block, yelling
to his brother, and I'm still sitting there, staring
at his palm, counting out the dollars.