[A]

A friend had called me A poetry bum few days Ago, when I showed up

At his house in my Black sweater with venti- Lation holes at the elbows,

To gather camellias, half Red & half white, for a jug That stands empty (even now)

In these long rooms of my cave. One has to gather his metaphors Where one can – leaves of grass

In a tin can, muted by the rain Falling over city streets, a homeless With his dog waiting under

An overpass. Something is over. Something is passing. Time, one Suspects, is living out its eternity

Somewhere here, close at hand, Irredeemable by an imagination hobbled By the ball and chain of pain.

[B]

Later that night, swilling Jack (from Tennessee) and pungent Cane liquor (from Brazil) I attempt

-ed small talk (anything bigger is Considered impolite, even if it is Precisely this that kills most of us,

This loud pounding of rain on The window, this aura of loneliness We each wear, if not as a dress,

As a necktie, as a noose, this sense Of shame, of reluctance at being our Brother’s keeper. Here pass the joint.)

With Mauricio (suitably and Appropriately stoned, and perhaps Unaware that he is a poet).

I asked him, “So, Mauricio, What are you doing here, in This Terminal City?” half listening

And half expecting the usual litany: Knife grinder, con artist, hang man, Pickpocket, aerialist, escaped convict.

To which he replied: “I am simply walking Around here, my friend.”

For João