Zen's Foreign Eyes

I see the one with uneven shoulders.
I see his sweater stained with eggyolk and God
knows what else.
I see the unpitied aggression
in his untied boots.
I see the brimmed hat
like a sweatshops'
knitted fangs.

I see spit,
I see Zebra cotton in
his smile. 

I see his hurried leading nowhere,
I see the gaseous invisibility
of his intoxication.

I see the ampitheatre where he
will not pay.

I see the truck with a wide berth.
I see him hip it, nudge it, roll his
eyes.

I hear his gasping stories downtown,
later maybe,
perhaps tonight after being
struck by kids with
bottle rockets.

He thinks he hears mine