Poem: Too Big

by Alex Gallo-Brown

Late, after poker--third place, thirty bucks
won in a game of drunk Asians--I stand outside
the bar among the peopleless picnic tables,
slowly smoking over a can full of butts.
A few minutes later, a man--really a large boy--
walking by asks me for a smoke.

I give him the paper, the clutch of tobacco.
I lend him my lighter.
He's a musician, he tells me as he gets it lit,
a Mozart of the streets.
He is, he says, too smart for this world.
Later, he says he wants to be a father
but doesn't like women.
Wants to work hard but doesn't want
to be exploited.
I have no answer
but my attention.
I listen to him speak his questions.

The next morning, I see him again,
walking on a different street.
Both of us are laid speechless by this coincidence.
Finally, I ask him how he's doing.
Okay, he tells me--he's got his jogging shorts on.
These days, what he really needs is a car:
he's getting too big for his feet.