It was there i met a man
whose face was slashed like
corn stalks
and who spoke of American Football
in some European accent unfamiliar
to me
and the moonlight
that lay like linen
on the tops of
his lace less shoes
and the velcro change purse
he palmed and admired like
a pastry
i wanted to interrupt him
in the nervous, stuttering fashion
of a Woody Allen movie
and somehow excuse myself
but his fidgeting stare
closed in on me
with more passion
than a lover
and frightened my hands
deep into my jacket pockets
and my legs
into comical indecision
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