"Whatchu doin?" he asks,
punctuating his boldness
with a cigarette drag.
Is it effrontery?
It is a free country --
he may ask, I may not answer.
Is he casing me, an assessment,
or does he like what he sees?
He is dark and pitted
his gravelly voice
sure of possession.
"Snipe hunting," I reply
and move on.
So does he,
tossing me to the fog
of morning, a discarded
wrapping or scrap
he for a moment thought a dollar.
That takes care of that.
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