A muttering, dusty figure,



slumped forward on the sidewalk.



 



Where others quicken pace,



afraid you'll rape them



or ask for money,



I pause a moment



to place my patent-leather briefcase down and



check my Cartier wristwatch.



 



I look at you with your



manic, oscillating eyes and



toothless mouth leaking crack residue to the



ground below.



 



Perhaps in some trans-dimensional world



you stand above other men,



a philosopher-God whose



schizophrenic ravings are



recorded as Holy sermon.



 



Others stammer and tremble,



awed by your vast, unknowable intellect,



which is unjustly vilified in this civilized world.



 



But most likely not.



 



I move along,



suddenly fearful that I might be stabbed and robbed.