Retarded man shuffles arm in arm with a square headed prostitute.

 

Black man sits like a child

            against the wall

of the underground wearing a white suit and top hat, white dots painted around his eyes, white

            painted on his lips. 

                        He holds up a sign asking for money.

 

Child man sits like an old man

            in the narrow passage, hair

            burned off or eaten away

            from a bare, raw meat scalp.

                        He has no feet or hands

 

Troy comes to me

            with bouncy JamesDeanKerouacGait and

            blazing blue water in his eyes.

            He made paintings with Seine

            water and sold them in Rimbaud's old house on the Rue Buci.

 

His father raised him to fish the water in Ishmael's New Bedford.

            "But you can't sit out to sea for two weeks at a time

with people you wouldn't even want to have a cup of coffee with."

            Though he could, he did for fifteen years.

 

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