Rocking, rocking
Back and forth like the conversation
Muttered between plumes of
Cigarette smoke.
"They owe me twenty three hundred,
The hotels and motels -
Eight in all."
He's said it about eight times.
Eight in all.
"And the surveillance systems
In the rooms.
The guy in the FBI lobby
Was talking. Said things.
Better have my money
'Cause it's messed up to
Take a man's money like that."
I nod, agree.
It's all I can do.
He's talked about some officer,
The white female down at
Cherry Street Mission.
He talks about the white male
And the black male
How they pass out cigarettes
And one's a mean son of a bitch
Who kicks people while they're
Trying to sleep.
I wonder who else has kicked him
While he's been down.
He's checking the clock again,
Doing the math -
Takes about an hour to walk
To get to the kitchens.
Good to get there early to
Get a bite to eat.
"'Cause man, they owe me
Twenty three hundred dollars
For the hotels and motels -
Eight in all."
Nine times, now.
"You get what I'm saying, though?
Isn't it messed up?"
Isn't everything?
Let him bum another smoke,
He's down on his luck
Though the FBI's got nothing
To do with it.
I've seen glimpses of coherency
Here and there.
Mentioned a brother who
Couldn't give a damn.
Mentioned working in a
Restaurant once.
But all the while he's rocking
And losing himself again in
His head and the imaginations
Of murder plots and FBI contracts.
I wonder what his last name is.
I wonder if he remembers what
His last name is.
"And the guy in the FBI lobby
Said they'd scrap up an extra grand
For the trouble.
Just takes time.
Don't you think that's messed up, though?
Don't you think that's fucked up?"
Do I ever.