Dark reflection of man,
stands beneath the traffic light,
which pulses to amber,
then red.
The first wave of cars darts past,
then the smoking buses that never stop
for red.
We of the second wave brake and halt,
reluctantly, headlights averted,
eyes ahead, hooded, perverted.
The cracked-up kid
limps from car to closed car,
asking for "something" señor
with pleading hand and eyes.
I look behind him cautiously
for crooked collaborators
before opening the window
a crack,
careful to avoid his grimy hand,
scarred, alive with germs,
and hand him some coins,
like sand.
The traffic light turns green and the pack
guns forward – I lean smirking back,
The only one to open the window a crack.
We gun forward and I lean smirking back,
The only one to open the window a crack.