Watching the Street Sometimes I feel like DH Lawrence,Aldous Huxley, or Celine while sitting Outside a chain coffee shop sipping coffee. Or sometimes I feel like I am in 1920’s Paris Without my fellow artists and writers around Just me, the cars, the street and the rest of The people—most of who could care less about Writing and the Arts. They are just there for the better or worse And they’re there to be seen or talk to somebody While loud rap or rock music plays in The background, while a man with a happy Countenance walks by whistling with a Dog on a leash. And I’ll be alone sipping the coffee, With one finger pressed against my right cheek, While people walk by, some quickly like Robots with cigarettes, some with guys, or Some with girls, but few are solo like myself. And if I see someone that I know, that would ruin It for me completely, because they would want To talk about something with me, and most likely It will not be very interesting and if they have Not seen me in awhile, “where you working at, how you Doing, have you seen so and so?” or it’s something About the weather. And perhaps I’m being unfair but others tend To think you’re unhappy when you’re alone brooding But I’ll be brooding neither happy nor sad, just There watching the activity and the people on A Friday or a Saturday night; the way some people Watch an orangutan, a prairie dog, a polar bear, A cheetah or peacock at the zoo. But the people are interesting To me as their: cigarettes, coffee, cell phones, Capri pants And jeans; everything on display And one becomes bored with everything and I think that I might is well have stayed home and watched television. The streets busy with people, the people busy With the streets.  I watch a police officer ride by Thinking, “with all these people out… something has To happen.” I exit the plaza while breathing the cheated air I walk past an abandoned building, where a prostitute Took me, to give me a hand job in the bushes and Trees that have been torn down; where we once hid from the people, Now my head and my stomach feel very sterile as I head Towards the train station. At the station waiting for a train… always waiting For the train; and the Cardinals are the best damn team In baseball; and their fans are getting off of the train— Some of them are loud and very drunk and I’ll walk Past them and they’ll wonder why I haven’t been to the game Or why I am not with someone.  And I’ll wonder why They are with someone and why they are at the ballgame. Still waiting for the train, I watched a couple of Attractive females arguing with some of the baseball fans About who should win the election Bush or Kerry And they are being very loud and belligerent and I wait For the baseball fans to leave… and I wait awhile and they Finally leave Than I walk over there and one of them smiles at me and asks Me who I am voting for in the next election Bush or Kerry And I tell them neither one, that I like Nader And they are pleased by this as they high five and Hug me.  They tell me that the baseball fans are stupid because They don’t see to care about the election or they are voting for Bush And the girls have been drinking as they smile at me And I smile back at them.  One of them has to leave to meet Somebody somewhere; but the one with her hair pigtails Stays with me—smiling and laughing and staring She is also are also very drunk.  Tonight might be interesting After all, as the train approaches are night. Poem by Damion Hamilton