today i saw a woman
hunched over

in a fraying
nylon
camp chair

wrapped in a
scottish
cream-coloured
tartan (with
black striping)

a pure-white sheet
swaddling
her entire head -

under the stalwart
post office edifice,

with its corinthian
appointments &
italian marble

the white head
bobbed
into the tartan
lap:

it was 7:45 am
on the streetcorner
of reality

i thought,
"my god, such a snapshot!"

but i quickly let that
go & suffered
within the scene:

of my sister,
sleeping,
before the bums' rush

vying to rest
in the middle of everywhere
(& the dignity of that)

her blanketed comportment
so un-real, if i had
sculpted it as reality,
i would have received an
F-grade

but this woman,
here, is the classic pose
of the poor,
in this time & this space:

you won't get any
venus poses
hearkening some
fertility exemplar

rather a roughshod
blanket-woman
nodding
in stupor
& anesthetized dream

away from the horror she
was borne into.


part2

the juxtaposition
of brooks brothers-clad
venuses
in tight skirts

chatting past
the bobbing woman
(starbucks in hand)

reveals so much
about genetics
& social equity -

that both types
are unified
by brooks brothers
tartan
is beyond
comprehension.