Masked Like Me

It was about ten p.m. when I noticed him,

weaving in and out from between grey garbage cans.

He reminded me of my crack-headed friend Donny's aunt, with her sneaky little hands,

furtively sliding him cash—on too long arms—knowing full well what he would do with it.

She often turned those palms with the same nonchalance as she did

with her—stingy, black ears flanking— tiny, brown, hazelnut head,

with nearly no chin.

And that waddle; her sprawling, bulbous prairie of faded, navy-blue terry cloth;

infinite ass spilling out of the driver's seat of her

spectacularly clean—no safety sticker and expired tags—

black Chevette.

The image still shames me, but I laugh—in a sentimental way—to myself,

at that sad, pear shape that lacked even breast enough to stretch

a thin, horizontal stripe of her second hand tube top,

as it just missed coming to rest atop obscenely high hips

that curled its bottom edge.

It was pretty F'd up of me to have noticed that of her, even back then.

And that's when it dawned upon me that the little guy must have been a she.

What else could make someone so gullible and so shameless but to be

in defense of unborn babes;

to walk right up to me or anyone else, expecting to be kicked,

killed, or worst—

Given something to eat.

At least on the surface, she didn't seem to be very discriminant of

with whom she hung out with,

and it made me think back to when Donny's aunt wasn't ashamed

of being seen with him, or for that matter, me.

As I stepped out of the flat roofed barracks she yielded

just enough for me to be comfortable in her presence.

It wasn't as if she was looking for a handout,

even though she had her little black hands out.

They were always palm-side down, anyway—bumming a cigarette,

yet sliding enough change for a—yeah right—

couple of bottles of light beer and some chapstick for his

dry lips that seemed to be irreversibly greyed

from smoking blunts.

I remembered that when she stood there,

two fisting broken bits of tortilla chips from my hand.

It was her crude kind of therapy. Behind his back she said that

she was going to love the dope fiend right out of his ass.

She seemed to enjoy the company of other outcasts.

So, we stood there trying to figuring each other out.

She wore her own scarlet F—though black—like a mask

wrapped thinly around her head, covering her eyes—

her magic, night-vision blindfold—

that allowed her to see beyond the green felon behind the fence

to the old me; the overzealous kid;

naive nose flung high in the air, filled with idealistic dreams,

feeling himself;

Smart assed lips locked in parse to give someone a dose of cocky,

but not really all that mean-spirited, bullshit.

And though neither of us could see it,

that's when the ocean started singing with the wind

and the trees—

swaying like backup singers arranging

themselves up-front—bent.

Then came a big, invisible, sleepy voice of a diva

hidden behind the mic, and at that moment

we were just two old friends catching up for dinner,

and a show—the one that Donny promised to take her to when he

cleaned up.

Brought there by a gentler wave of the same fate

that made that whole night seem so sullen.

The moon was a silver Afghan draped over everything;

bright but letting the hiding stay hidden

if they had to be.

And its light was so heavy that it made the world sound

like warm, whole milk going down

to dislodge a fishbone caught in the throat of a troubled soul.

And then she was gone.

And I was standing there alone between the garbage

cans and the giant mountain—that I recalled

couldn't have been an olive's branch more green when

the sun was out—

listening to that big song, waiting for the high notes to start.

Then the sweet, pungent funkiness of the last trashed meal

pushed in and reminded me that I was still clean,

for the most part.

But all I could think about was my felonious, little friend

and the way she settled for chips from my hand

Instead of the choice spread that sat en masse

in the waste bins.

I looked as far as I could in the night to see

if I could spot her again.

I thought I had caught sight of her several times,

but when I walked the path at dawn

I saw those sightings as the piles of pine needles

that they were in the dark,

And I doubted that Donny was still around.