I sit in Boston Common contemplating.
A large policeman speaks to me: Move on.
On a Universal City sound lot I watch clouds.
A security guard addresses me: Move off.
Get. Move off. Move on. Man, go away.
Conversations with power aren’t serendipitous
when you are down and out, and old, middle-aged or young,
ageism not a point when you’re destitute.
When I’m addressed this way, I flash The Smile
that Jack Nicholson bought his roles with. I unwind
from whatever position I’m in until I’m standing
on my hands, my T-shirt torn, showing rock-hard abs.
Suddenly people cluster, want to know my thoughts.
They ask me questions, write my answers down
to live by: what I think about the wars
in Congress, about new cures, about how much
they should invest in futures, and in love.
I answer for a while until reporters
from the networks set their mikes on, then I flip
upright. I stow the smile. I disappear.