The Voice
By Gene Aronowitz
I see a man
on his back and kneel. The sidewalk
simmers.
His long gray hair and beard
frame sunken
cheeks, red
bulbous nose, a bruise
by one eye. Ripped
fatigues expose
crust on his leg. On his head,
a black cap,
inscribed
USS Maddox, a
destroyer.
A drib of drool
glistens as he looks up.
“Am I
bothering you?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Then get
the fuck away.”
