Shambles

Shambles

Yes, the "Richard Pryor" looking guy was somewhat interesting,
except that he was so drunk he was drooling.
He either thought I looked like Mark Twain or Gene Wilder,
sitting on the bench on Broadway at Midnight, typing.

He seemed to think we were from the same area,
somewhere around Kentucky.
Maybe Carolina,
where his family worked on crab boats,
or maybe North Oates Avenue.

All these short stories and his 1970s comedy asides,
the out of the side of his mouth political jabs and so on,
were pretty entertaining,
as I just sat there and typed,
playing the white straight man type,
like in Stir Crazy and Silver Streak,
wild Einstein afro hair flapping in the breeze.

That went okay for a few minutes
until Pryor knocked over my coffee,
seemed to be embarrassed about that,
and wandered away,
on up the sidewalk.

Then when a crack hooker chick
in real shambles came along,
offered to blow me right there for five bucks,
I decided that along with the chilly breeze on my back,
perhaps it was time to pack it up for the night.

I wanted dark, I got dark.

-Will Dockery (11-15-2016)