stoop sittin (a Baltimore tradition)

stoop sittin in sunshine
sloppy around the corner
book imprints my legs
burning with the last rays
of a day long in leisure
fantasy of characters
creaking shuffles of people
with no cares for me or my blues
so I’d rather stoop sit
glancing occasionally to see
a puff of luck caught in a sidewalk
a piece of trash gleaming
the cool marble on my hands
when I lean back to stretch,
glancing occasionally to see
a car, and then you, your braids,
your brown skin, your turn
to take another street.

never mix hawking and kerouac and coffee

is it
the Jeff Buckley or the Hawking?
or the coffee or the Kerouac?
making my mind
alight brighter than the pregnancy
of a rain sky
seeing clearer all these
coffee shop signs marketing to me:
billboards singing,
you should have
come over”

what is it about
Mondays? is it space time
or caffeine
saying to me
if you could do it again
you would ~
and don’t believe it otherwise.

people come,
they go,
outside to smoke
while I wait with my books.

I heard in a movie of
a man
eating an ice cream cone
for every book he finished reading ~
and he became fat.

is it the Kerouac
or the Hawking?
is it the tedious reliving of
a day
after a day

each is the same. but either way,
the grey sky is bright
and alight
with the heaving breast of