A friendly suggestion.

There's a junk sale
passed off as an antique-oriented street market
that goes on one block up
from her window every weekend.
The vendors come from Massachusetts.
The locals there must be onto their ruse.

I strolled through the tents and tables
two weeks ago to kill an hour
while she slept off the previous night's shift.
Bought a table vice for fifteen bucks
that'll hold my pistols just right
while I work on them.
Flipped through some "vintage" clothing racks.
Read spines of books I'll never bother to read.

But it's the guy I overheard
at the last table I stopped in front of
who stands out most in my mind now.
He was chatting up a merchant
about something other than his wares
and said "If I'm going to put something
on my tombstone it's going to be Try."

His words hit me like a laughable ton of bricks
forcing me to rub the tattoo of the boxer
on the back of my left arm. That image
along with the words "Don't Try" are on
the marble above Charles Bukowski's grave
somewhere in Southern California.
Whether the brief advice was a typically
cynical notion of my wine-guzzling anti-hero
or a positive Yoda-esque message of
"Try not. Do." is something that could ruffle the panties
of book snobs worldwide at faculty cocktail parties.
My bet's on the first horse, though.

Hank-- the next time I see you in the streets of Manhattan
will you take the time to say Hello?
These clowns don't have a clue.