standing near us at the bar. Later, I saw him in the street
waiting for the bus. He stepped in something,
sang, I was here, I was here.
Tomorrow, someone will tell him,
You look ridiculous.
He will believe them.
I saw that his black beard held gray tears. His
left leg tapped a Fred Astaire syncopation,
his right tapped in counter-rhythm.
Tenderly, he smiled at a child
who stopped to stare at the fool.
Ragged, his coat flapped.
My bus came.
Trish Saunders lives in Seattle. She has poems and short fiction
published or forthcoming in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Gargoyle, the late lamented Fat Damsel Review, and here in Drinkers Only.
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