October 18, 2016 by petrujviljoen
The confines of the flat too oppressive to be in by myself. Nearing Rockey Street two guys wave a bag of marijuana in my face. Casually I grab it and walk on not bothering to look back, in too much of a bad mood to care. My long army coat flaps in the wind, hands thrust deep into the pockets. Something the city taught me; know its rhythm, walk swiftly. I round the corner, where most times a group of dealers hang out.
Art, the owner – I later called him Arthur in answer to the question: what do you do – Art. The deliberate confusion with the man as to the activity … anyway … I get the customary nod and join the regulars playing backgammon. Later, the two guys whose bag I took made eye contact. Was that a smile? Earlier the warning – the cops are out.
system charged too high
jazz traces every nerve end
– the danger has passed.
Linked to Dverse Poets