Every ville and burg or burb
has a crossroads.
Where souls get traded
to Mr Scratch.
Over breakfast
in Brussels.
Or a Manhattan
in Manhattan.
The sidewalk preachers
at Market and Powell
say the End Times
are near, selling fear
and the promise
of redemption
while one of the lost ones
nurses a forty ounce beer
in a brown paper bag
and a crooner performs
for the tourists lined up
for the cable car ride.
Like a web or a magnet
a gravitational hole
where energy flows
and souls can be bought
for a dollar or two
at 14th and Broadway
in Oakland, or a million
or two in DC on K Street.
De Lauer's Newstand
on Broadway
established in 1907,
pipes classical music
to the sidewalk
out in front.
Perhaps a tradition
begun long before
the immigrant owners
who now sell the sundries
and more magazines
than I've ever seen in one place.
Across the street
a man throws his coat
on the ground and screams
obscenities at the window
of the Walgreen's
for an hour.
And the arsonist
makes his grand tour
from Belgium to England
to Scotland and Finland
brandishing his hair,
his red tie, and his power.
