He got to be bi-polar, schizoid or something
Living on the street that way
Connecticut, near the circle, his beat
Neither forlorn, nor left alone long
He slapped a tourist one day
Not to be mean, some may say
An encounter of the strange kind
On the street, in the summertime
Merely strolling, with the flow
Coffeehouse or wine store memories fresh
She expressly prohibiting the intrusion
Misunderstanding hands extended
Towards each other
One panhandling…
One unable to “say” no…
Her expression, his impression
The Quick and the Deaf
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem