Behind The Walls

A long line of
the beautifully unaware
forms before the sign up list.
They are anxious to share
perky, quirky poems
that will defend
their fortress mentality.
For form’s sake, some of them
will express a bit of outrage
at something in the recent news,
then go back
to their humorous and poignant observations
of the Way Things Are In Here.

From the curb outside the coffeehouse
an old man accosts me
and proffers an empty cup for change.
I dig into my pocket for a few coins;
he thanks me saying, “Some’s bastards,
some ain’t, that the score.”  Then,
“That’s Jack Kerouac, you know.”

I talk with him for a little while,
exchanging small talk on literature
and how hard the cold stone is on his ass,
but there’s a long drive
into the American night
ahead of me still,
and soon I begin speeding
past the brownstones
and triple deckers,
along the highways lined
with thick wooden fences
that keep both the view
and the sound of the road
away from the bedrooms
of the currently secure.