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Charcoal
The man approached the table
Dancing to the jazz
Getting down
A funky dance

Wearing a black cloak
Sits down on the rotated chair
Coffee in front
About to drink

He rubs his hair
On his round head
With his charcoal hands
Dirty from the bum's life of dance

Like a vampire from Astor Place
Sipping the coffee of heated violence
Rubbing his hair
With soiled, worked palms

He sees his reflection
In the window infront
Beyond the steaming cup
And cookies brought to him by far

A crew cut
Rubbed with blackness
And tan clothing
Portraying a son

He casts out spells
And talks to himself
Conversations about the lover's paradise
And last nights opening

He is a clergy man
Mother Superior's bouncer
With an unshaven face
One complete frigid stare

Yells a potion
And becomes an exorcist
Helps them from the evil they once were
As he draws on the napkin at his finger tips

One white from art of below
And the other
New York City dirt
Rising from the chair

Passing him
I slip him a five
And he holds onto my fingers
The clean ones he once had
A few seconds he is my brother
A lover
Both wanted to hold eachother
Caress
To cradle eachothers life






© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.02.14.04:28:06@NYC
Valentine¹s Day