He sat, silently smirking over

his cardboard cup of coffee,

leaning, to lap it like a cat.

Lips oiled and curved and bluish,

hands knotted with filth, he

stroked his pocket.

Like a child picking wildflowers -

he paid court to every set of eyes

in the busy hum of the fast-food

place.

He chose me and pinned me to

his moment in time.

Lacivious, leering, laughing,

he opened his pocket just for me.

A half-dead sparrow leaked

part way out and burred its

broken wing.

It sang as sweetly as if we were

in a glen, a meadow, a dale of

helitroping sun flowers.

Then he licked one lip and

ran his bony, bent finger down

the bird's spine, causing it

to flutter, as if some phantom

wind blew by...

He put it back, that broken bird.

His eyes dared me to commit to

him in an obscene partnership

of silence. I smeared myself

with his evil...said no word.

Then I walked to him, held

out my hand, and after grinning

 madly, he took the bird from

his pocket and laid it on my palm.