ankle struggles up and limps away.
Two leather-clad bikers sit on the
park bench holding hands.
There used to be a drunk on this
route who lost his mother
and started fights with everyone
but he's sobered up now
and sitting next to me, talking
loudly about the small inheritance
he got when his mother passed away.
Wrinkled Martha tells him to keep writing,
("Martha, is it?" "You've got a good memory"
"I don't even remember my own name,
I have it written here on my forearm.")
while the legally blind man in front of me
is drawing a map on the back of his neighbor's
bus schedule – poor girl seems lost –
a map of how to get back to where we came
from because we've come so, so far.
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