rod and a bucket in hand, canvas hat;
the halibut seeker
crosses battery street
on tuesdays and fridays.
the doorway men sleep on cardboard
and cradle their forty-ounce colt 45's
the parrots are screaming in sue bierman park,
the software developer people gossip and gawk,
talking up schemes for embarrassing moments
at the karaoke night planned for the evening.
fisherman walks straight ahead, they don't see him,
they swivel and stare at a girl wearing high-heeled boots
when she slips on a patch of wet leaves
and flashes a glimpse of her victoria's secret.
the parrots dive on a pigeon and squabble over the stump
of a half-eaten bagel -noah's best- on the sidewalk.
the fisherman reaches the dock and rigs up his rod,
today might be lucky, if so,
he'll be in good company
with the red-tailed hawk
riding the updrafts on the face of the tower,
who likes to eat squab on tuesdays and fridays.
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