Neighbors The man on Market Street, waiting for the bus, while sparse strands of hair salute the wind, exposing his pink and balding head, the blonde woman crossing Market Street on high-heeled, silvery shoes in the middle of the day, delicately breaking stride to avoid contact between her footwear and the streetcar tracks, the young woman on the 6 Parnassus bus, whose hair, of a carefully chosen auburn tint, is cut in a severe bob and whose lipstick, which perfectly matches her hair, looks incapable of smudging, who declines the opportunity to share a smile when the guy a few rows back, who smells distinctly of whiskey and sweat, starts to sing a Barry White song, very loudly and very much off key, the guy a few rows back, on the 6 Parnassus bus, whose whiskey-loosened body jerks and sways as the bus goes jerking and swaying down Page Street, who, with earphones on, loudly sings in high-pitched, unrelated tones, a song by Barry White, the deep bass god of "make out" music of our twenty-years-ago youth, the young man outside the Hacienda Market, wearing a t-shirt that bears a drawing of the crucifixion, who makes sucking noises with his mouth and, in low tones, says, "Ooooh...hey, Chica, hey, Chica..." until I look him in the eye and nod and say, formally, and with an ironic smile, "Pase un buen dia" and walk on, thw white man on Haight Street, sitting in the doorway next to El Taqueria Balazo, covered in a dirty-grey film that emphasizes green and searching eyes, who asks, quietly, "Any change?" making me wonder if he's referring to coins or to the spiritual state of our collective being. K. Powell
Reason for writing:
The poem was inspired by a discussion in an English class
(in which I was the teacher) about the parable of "The Good
Samaritan. We discussed deconstructing our own subject
position in order to broaden our definitions of community.
By the way, I was born under the sign of Scorpio.
Birth sign: Not entered
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