Walking Home Poem by Bert Bell

It’s been raining non-stop
since ten o’clock
this morning; what a
day to forget my umbrella.
My work day is done.
I doddle along with a
newspaper on my
head in the pouring rain
and listen to the voices
of passersby.

“The nerve, ” a young
woman says into
her headset mike.
“Who does she think she is? ”

“Put a little extra mustard
on that will ya? ” a man says
to the hotdog vendor.
“Watch it, lady, ” another says,
“you nearly poked my eye
out with that thing! ”
“Sorry.”


My newspaper’s sopping wet.
I step under a posh
doorway awning.
The sky is almost black with
heavy cloud.
Car lights are coming on,
horns blare, tempers flare
and more rain falls like a river onto
the street.


A middle-aged couple passes,
the woman screaming
at her husband, “Don’t you lie
to me, Marvin. I saw the way
you were looking at that
gaudily-dressed bimbo.
At your age!
You oughta be ashamed
of yourself! ”


He sees me listening and
shrugs his shoulders in
embarrassment,
with a facial expression that says,
“What was I thinking when
I married this woman? ”


“You can’t stand here blocking
the doorway, ” the doorman
says to me.
“C’mon, buddy, ” I say,
“it’s pouring out here.”
“Buy an umbrella! ” he says.
“Excuse me, ” a snooty old broad says,
“you’re in my way.'
She’s carrying a yapping, bug-eyed
little excuse for a dog.
“Sorry, ” I say. 'Did you buy
that dog 'cause it looks like you? '
“Tell this man to move, Darwin, ” she says.
“I already told him once, Mrs. Dibble.”
“Get out o’ here! ” he says
to me again.
So, off I go in the rain.


Almost home, I think, as I turn
onto Third Avenue.
I hurry along past the hookers.
“Wanna have a good time, honey? ”
they say. I have to admit
they’re pretty damned enticing.
Short mini-skirts, net stockings,
stilettos. Mmm, not bad at all.
“Sorry girls, ” I say, “the little
woman’d kill me.”
“She won’t hear jack from us,
honey, ” one of them says.


“Thanks anyway, ” I say,
“Perhaps another time.”
I catch a priest eyeing the long
legs of one of the
prostitutes.
“Not bad, eh, Father? ” I say.
“It’s not a sin to look, ”
he says with an air of piousness.
“If it were, ” I say, “I’d have a lot
of confessions to make.”
A garbage truck grunts and vibrates
as it compacts maggot-infested
trash at the curb.
The stench is putrid.


“Well then, to hell with you, ” a man
says into to his cell phone.
“In that case, I’m not comin’
home at all.”
He snaps his phone shut, shakes
his head and kicks a
trash can.


A Chinese pizza delivery guy
asks me where 364a is.
“I don’t know, ” I say, “it’s got to
be on this side of the
street though.”
“Here it is, ” he says, “right here! ”
He seems delighted.
“There you go, ” I say.


“Are you gonna watch the
Mayweather-Mosely fight on
Sataday? ” somebody says.
I don’t hear an answer.
I walk past Rocky’s Pizza.
Mmm, I think, that aroma makes
me drool. Should I stop for a slice?
Nah, she’d kill me.


“Out o’ the way! ” a kid on a skateboard
yells. “I can’t stop! ”
Whew! That was close, I think,
barely sidestepping him.


Are you listening to me, Arthur? ” a woman
is saying to her husband. “If you don’t
stop drinking I’m leaving you.”
“Honest, honey, ” he says, “I only had
two beers.”
“That’s two too many.”


A taxi plows through a puddle and
splashes me. I’m furious and
attempt to blast him with sarcasm.
I botch it.


Two teenage girls in school uniforms
share gossip and giggle.
“And I was like, so-o-o embarrassed, ”
one says.”
“Hello! I’d have been like, mortified, ”
the other says.
A van passes with huge woofers invading
everyone’s thoughts. It annoys me.


“I blew a C-note on the lousy
Nicks last night, ” some poor slob
says to his friend.
“Stella’s gonna kill me.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“I have to. It was her hundred bucks.”
I bump into the Chinese pizza
delivery guy again.
“Sank you, sir, ” he says.
“What’d I do? ” I say.
“You bling me luck, ” he says
with a toothy grin.