There's a shotgun house
adjacent to a vacant lot 
which used to be a hot spot,
Big Daddy's Hamburger Joint
but that's been many years ago,
yet there's an old wanderer who's seen it
and other businesses alike come and go.

Paper sack brown
a hidden scar under his right ear
stretching right below his left,
that's said to be the 
second time he escaped death-

a wrinkled face
weary about the eyes,
strained expression that sees nothing
while emotionless in the pit of surprise-

a 1980s windbreaker jacket
detailed with windmills,
old cotton slacks
stained leather shoes
a panama hat with a chin strap
to match the wooden cane,
a slow cautious walk
with a limp old as the lines in his face
with an umbrella in his left hand
to block the draining sun.

A stranger to the passing cars
but familiar to the ancient roads
when they were plastered with long ago bars
that served cups
framed as jelly jars-

no one walks along his side,
no one shares a conversation
yet one can only wonder about the origin
of the man 
in the panama hat with the chin strap
playing as his head
with that sun blocking umbrella
acting as his hat.

On the bus line during summer days
he sits for hours and hours
not bothering a soul,
and sometimes when it's cold

looking off into nowhere seems to be his eyes' objection
but there's a story
for his reasonable distressing
not to mention the overheard conversations he has with himself
detailing his own discretion.

Long ago he was what the old folks call
a jelly-
smooth, hip and self assured.
He was in love with a beauty
named Dashelle Monroe,
rumored to be from Louisiana
and titled a Creole-
with green-gray eyes, a Dorothy D. smile
with auburn hair
skin tinted yet fair

and he loved her,
supposedly took a cut
from some jealous white fellow
before fatally wounding him in return
over her,
resulting in her leaving
until things cooled down.

One day in broad daylight
he kissed that woman
many mistook for being white
for the very last time,
not realizing it in his mind
as he waved goodbye
to the auburn haired,
pearly gray-green eyed
Dorothy D. smile having
skin tinted yet fair faced beauty,
full of games and lies.

Thirty something odd years later
he travels to that same old bench
almost daily -
windmill printed windbreaker
cotton slacks,
same old leather shoes
soiled and stained
with that slow, cautiously limp walk
with an expression weary and crazy -
iconic cane
to help the limp on his right side,
umbrella in left hand
panama hat with the chin strap
acting as his head.
The umbrella not only blocks the sun
but the curious eyes that stare,
along with the unseen tears
upon the strained face,
yet expressionless;
but even though there's always the talk
of the unsure rumor,
I oftentimes wonder is it just a part
of the inconsiderate inhabitant's humor.

After seeing what this place 
and the world alike
are all about
maybe I too would act crazy
just to keep the crazy ones
on their p's and q's
when it came to me -
I'd talk to myself
because it doesn't pay to talk to others no-how,
maybe I'd even wear the same old clothing
to secure my days in the land,
for jealous standbys hate to see you look good anyhow-
and would also keep a cane as my bat
to play baseball on any brainless balls
who'd consider knocking me down
for the fall,
as well as an umbrella
to block the haters on all sides of my diaphragm.
And to mention those days
that are hot and hazy
which share collaborations with the
heartless, mean, cruel, ignorant
along with the unclassy, thoughtless, no pride having individuals,
maybe I too would act crazy.

But maybe
part of his story
does hold a certain vixen
that took him out of his mind,
Dashelle Monroe from Louisiana
referred to as creole,
gray-green eyes
a Dorothy D. smile
with auburn hair
skin tinted yet fair,
something wrapped in flesh
that could be too much for a fella
that walks around fashioned in the same ole
and holding onto
the last piece of her sentimental collection
left long ago,

a shielding umbrella.