the man with the hawk-handled cane

the man with the hawk-handled cane
stalks the courtyard at night
looking for shadows to drink,
and sometimes he’ll cling by the entrance
and howl into the wind,
not in a vulpine way,
but rather like a man
catching shrapnel in the
chest or eye or soul.

the man with the hawk-handled cane
can be seen with a can of Modelo’s
sipping slowly on the train station steps
outside the old bar where the old men
talk of the old songs
and the great nine-ball players
we lost one game too early or late.

And when the Boulevard shuts down
and the neon dissipates
like so many scattered bees,
the man with the hawk-handled cane
will dance for the ambling traffic,
wobbling his knees out and in
like an effexor-starved dream.
And the horns will honk as he
takes his cane to a storefront window.
He won’t blink but once.

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