my feet just missed it.
the broken bottle on the 
damp street, 
wet from last nights storm, or
his tears.
and as the water disappears, so will his headache.
i imagine him as that man i see downtown sometimes,
wrinkling dark brown skin;
eyes far off somewhere, recalling a fine memory, or
many tragedies.
heart in shards like that bottle,
such rage as he hurls it...
"FUCK the world!"
the world
has changed.
no more "Monkey" this, no 
"Coon" that...
for being a color he didn't choose.
yes, the world has changed... 
but he doesn't know how to change with it.
it's too late and he
doesn't know how to relate.
and he is just like that glass;
everyone who comes near him avoids him
wondering who will come by, and 
clean him up.