It's a private place,
High beneath an overpass
With the semis
Thundering overhead
And the joggers
The bicyclists,
The baby strollers;
All the nowhere people-
Using the greenway below.
They don't see you
In the shadows
Marking the weak,
The easy prey:
A retarded child
Skipping awkwardly,
An old man wheezing
In his shabby suit,
The fat woman in
A wheelchair-
Not that you can do
Much about them,
What with the bloody chip
In your head…

…still, it's nice to
Sit unseen,
Bottle wrapped
In a brown paper bag
Beside you,
Fag dangling indolently
From your fingers,
Blowing blue rings
Into the heat of the day-
The noisy silence
Of traffic
Shaking the earth,
Pretending that
You're still
What you were:
A lion on a rock
Where zebras mill
At the water's edge
Unaware that death
Is watching.