birds by t

which one of you comes sitting from over-there? the over-there. i wonder aloud as you approach. worn denim jackets worn with the sleeves cut off. i hold my breath and wait. trying to look in the other direction. direction other than the over-there direction. but it seems to be everywhere. you seem to be coming from all-sides. but just one. so i wait. trembling a little. for fate to decide where to throw me. looking back you're standing directly in front of me. hands on hips. foot tapping. just like a bad movie. i swallow hard. gulp. just like in a bad comic strip. we occupy all genres. i wait for you to speak. the time never comes. suddenly a cup is in your hand with arm out-stretched. i rummage pockets fumbling for and old quarter. but only dimes. that would be insulting. but a dollar would be too much. i wouldn't want you to think i do this all the time. looking down i take my hand from my pocket dropping two nickles and an old button in your cup (i noticed you were missing one on your vest). when i look back i see you've grown old. your hands wore and eyes clouded over. your clothes less fitting, collected from others, or the garbage, tossed away. you're dirty and ashamed. i am still afraid. but it's a different fear. a guilty fear. i look down at my shoes, fidgeting , as you grunt and walk away. back in the direction you came from. you disappear.