Here I sit on goddamn bench in the Quarter
drying out after another summer afternoon shower.
It’s too hot and tips are too slow on Sundays,
and these tourists are cheap, nutless twits.
Like that old bitch in the store across the way.
She thinks I don’t see her snapping my photo for free?
Shit, I’ll look right at her and dare her to take another.
And now I’ll smile slow-like and pat my lap.
When she whirls around, my practiced cackle follows.
For fun, I scream: “Old woman, you can’t run from Death!”