Cabezón By Amy Beeder

I see you shuffle up Washington Street   
whenever I am driving much too fast:   
you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf   
hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack   
from the slit of your pumpkin mouth,   
humped over like the eel-man or geek,   
the dummy paid to sweep out gutters,   

drown the cats. Where are you going now?   
Though someday you'll turn your gaze   
upon my shadow in this tinted glass   
I know for now you only look ahead   
at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash
but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked,   
hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?
Source: Poetry (February 2004).

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