Buses expel and taxi rust rattles,
a siren swirls in the funnel of noise
that flows like fluid to the hollows
and pours back misshapen and dense.
Beside the terminal,
I watch The Dancing Man
convulse as though shot,
drop to a knee, shake it off,
rise and writhe up the block
in blazing red shoes.
So focused, the shepherd dog never flinches
and the blind Pretzel Man nods and smiles.
Crystalline swipes down his sleeve,
but carefully, so very carefully
he picks each brown twist with silver tongs
and tucks them in wax paper wrapping.
I touch his fat fingered hand and
his lolling tongue forms “thank you.”
In Grace Park, through skim,
the sun's crinkled eye squints
on a gasping photosynthesis.
I break pretzels into pigeon bites
or bury them deep in the trash bin.
David “Pony Boy” Hill works in a segment of the highly respected investment industry. He once wrote a short poem that was published in the Forsyth Technical Community College Annual Literary Journal. This was his high water mark. He cried.