on patrol

I walk around in circles

looking for something, but I don’t

know what

they won’t tell me

I don’t think they know either

still I walk around in circles

and find things

I smoke a little

move real slow, and look out into

the streets

the construction of the

new sheriff’s department

the remodeling of the GPD

I take pictures of the pretty flowers

I encounter to identify later, then

later forget

the passersby are always

busy, walking fast, talking fast, with

iced coffees in their hands

they don’t belong here, don’t

want to be here

so they move quickly, hurrying home

to their ordinary spouses

but the residents

the aboriginals

the homeless or employees

still don’t want to be here yet

have grown accustomed to the strife

they move slow, like I move slow

and some don’t move at all

apart from subtle head nods or

small gestures for change

on days where I can’t stand the heat

I find moments of shade

under nearby trees, a bench where I sit

facing a restaurant

and sharpen a pencil with the knife

in my pocket just like Pops taught me

I pull out blank sheets of paper and begin

on my poetry:   

there’s a waitress that

passes through from the restaurant nearby

she sees me write while I sit and

she has seen me write while I eat

with quick glimpses that are nearly

undetectable, but I catch them, those

sneaky blue eyes. I find them to be

the most pleasant, and her the most bright,

but I will never tell her,

that’s the kind of coward I am.

I’ll sit with her, talk to her, laugh with her,

but will never ask.

and neither will she because she’s

a coward, too.

she walks past me, moving slow, being seen,

wishing to discover,

but would much rather be found.

while I’m going around in circles

recalling the names of flowers

as the prettiest blooms in sight.

she looks at me, grins at me

and like a coward,

I smile,

then wave her goodbye.