At the Santa Monica Pier. . .
. . .on an unseasonably warm April day at
eleven ayem, sky blue, wispy fog fighting
for a toehold at the waterline.
Carousel is still silent, carney shops are
just beginning to crack their doors, tarot
reader’s rolling metal door is firmly locked,
every permutation of bike for pleasure or
exercise is on hurried sprints along the
pedestrian walkways, and the denizens who
sleep on the cement benches are beginning
to stir.
It’s going to be a great and bustling day.
Settle on one end of a thirty-foot bench
with a fried cheese-on-a-stick and cherry
lemonade for breakfast.
Notice at the other end one of those
overnighters waking up. He notices me,
too.
And rails at me that I shouldn’t be
sitting on that stretch of concrete.
Flash him my well-developed urban blank
face perfected for such encounters.
Like, you couldn’t possibly be
addressing ME.
He shouts in an early morning gravelly
bellow:
Yeah, YOU! This here’s real estate
for MY people.
In the tone of voice a new homeowner
would use yelling at the neighbor’s
dog decorating his lawn.
WTF is that?
Tags: Underneath it all, we humans
are pretty much the same.
You have the succinct eye and comical commentary exposing the most unusual public, on purpose, human behaviors and comical sensibilities. Keep it coming! Enjoy so much!
xoc