He’s got a gimp;
it throws his suit
like the buttons are one button-hole out,
and the shirt falls
below his jacket
on that side.
He walks faster to blur it;
speeds through the city throngs;
that adeptness pleases him;
the gimp’s
in his talk
too.
He tells you straight;
tells you
he’s telling you straight,
to remember what he says
or get used to
being kicked around.
And always checking behind
or glancing into doorways
like he’s in debt
all down the street,
then turns a corner like he’s
trying to lose someone.
He keeps his right hand
in his jacket pocket;
the fingers are walking too;
I think it's because some woman told him
that constant movement
is freaky.
He won’t mind my
telling you;
he’ll enjoy been written about,
and feels he’d be good on tv;
he knows they wouldn’t have him;
their loss.
