The Weakness of the Breed

A brisk mist falls
on me
and the February sidewalk
as I stubbornly stroll
to the post office.
People've been whining
of the weather as if it couldn't
be worse, like twenty and snow.
Reminds me that the human condition
is one bereft of gratitude.
Makes me not want to bother with friends
or their wasted little words.

There's a man more foolish
than I am on the corner.
He's huddled under an oversized umbrella
attached to his dull, silver hotdog cart.
No one's in search of a tube steak today.
You can read that however you'd like.
The soggy buns will be a loss
that his wife will pay for later.
It's a sad attempt made
by a sad attempt at arguing
that Beacon's like the City
with its shops, pretentious hipsters
and everything in walking distance.
His lukewarm cup of coffee makes for
poor company while its lid collects a puddle.
Even if I had three bucks, even if
my stomach grumbled
I wouldn't give this fool
the idea that he's got it figured out.
You've got to know when to cut your losses.
There's no honor in forcing
what's not there.

Later on while driving
I see three men circled on the west side
of Fishkill Ave. They carry on their business
like its May in Tuscaloosa, a smile
and a hand way up in the air
for emphasis during a story.
Their clothing, location
and disregard for the weather
tell me that they're crazies
from the madhouse allowed to roam
that side of the street. I've seen ones
thumping Bibles, pleading desperately
with telephone poles, talking to their children
whom they haven't seen in decades.
Part of me envies the innocence there
the simplicity of life when the mind's not left
to wonder things
like how many times I drive by
a trapped genius every day
and why I bother breathing the same air
as men who don't know when
to keep their hotdogs dry
and stay home with the wife.

At this rate I hope the Mayans were right.