Somehow, he knows the precise moment
at which to tug the fishing line.
Past the unknowable edge
of every corner building,
he is a wiry boy with hair asunder.
His baby teeth are stalactites
lining the cavern of his soda-stained mouth.
He is waiting for you
to bend and pick up that dollar on the ground.
When you reach for it,
the dollar moves forward several inches.
Your cheeks turn red
as you notice the glances of the passers-by.
’Such wanton greed,’
you know they’re thinking.
A guffaw emanating from beyond the corner
attracts your murderous rage.
However, when you see the boy-
his tossed floppy hair strewn by urban windstrokes-
it is evident that your fellow pedestrians would scold you for such an act.
His resounding thigh-slaps are the fanfare
of a criminal who knows
his own invincibility.
Still, your inclination is to run him through with a large spear.
