Belmont and City; Final Draft (+/- some grammar revision)

Snow lingers long in shadow
cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards:
crumbling concrete bricks beaten by shovel and plow turn to dust.

Ice packed mounds line streets,
aging plastic or fake wood chairs reserve streetside parking,
spaces carved out not for passersby
in the City of Brotherly Love.

Breath takes form in the frigid air
its heart beats mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates in the lower atmosphere.

I am layered against the cold on an otherwise clear day.
Navigating labyrinthine and icy paths
and passing three young men I quietly turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, I mark the steps in front of my toes.
Head down, I slow march toward the bus stop marked 40.

From behind comes a low grumbled yell.
Turning my head the three young men again appear in view
but who would want to talk to me?
Who would even know me 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where I spend only minutes walking between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
I continue walking but still wonder: had something slipped from my pack
were these boys
black teens all neat and clean
here to help me?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet
followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention they could address me more directly.
Still worrying that I'd left something behind,
swinging from shoulder my backpack gently unwinds.
I check its contents for peace of mind.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

Now halfway down the block halfway to the bus stop,
I turn again to see these three boys now halfway again between me and the City.
“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask impatient.
Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, slightly afraid.
Does he think I mean to pull out a gun?

I pull out a bus token.
Fears extinguished thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”
Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” he commands.
“I don't have any.”

I am lying but yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag
(emergency funds for emergency rides).

I sling pack back on back turn and quicken my pace
but they follow even faster.
And soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any," is all my mind can muster:
chemicals explode inside my brain inside my body.

They close in around me, one on my right,
thin leader on the left, and a tag along somewhat behind.

My glance scans to the right,
a sudden jab smacks my neck where the left edge of my jaw juts out,
but adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing.
I scramble over a snow mound
step out into the streetside parking
create distance where none was before.

I pick up a chair in defense
to this thin leader insists,
“I'm gonna kick your ass if you hit me with that."
as if I was the one come for plunder
as if I was the one to trouble a stranger.
I step out into slow moving oncoming traffic
cars slow now that I'm out in the open.
Already the other two slink behind their brace faced leader,
as if avoiding blame.

My eyes turn to the left
and the 40 comes round the corner of Belmont and Ford.
Dropping the chair I sprint
hands waving in frantic motion,
chemicals compelling unthinking action.
But memory's minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly woman half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from pocket, board the bus.
My heart beats a thousand times a minute.

And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed
on this my birthday.

Belmont & City: Midday; Draft #4

Snow lingers longest in shadow
and the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards:
crumbling concrete bricks turned to dust beaten down by shovel and plow.

My breath takes form in the frigid air
its heart beating mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates in the lower atmosphere.

Ice packed snow mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
reserve street-side parking,
these spaces carved out not for passersby
in this city of brotherly love.

I am bundled against the cold on an otherwise clear day,
navigating labyrinthine and icy paths.
Passing three young men
I quietly turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, I mark the steps in front of my toes.
Head down, I slow march toward the bus stop marked 40.

From behind comes a low grumbled yell.
Turning my head the three young men again appear in view
but who would want to talk to me?
Who would even know me 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where I spend only minutes passing between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
I continue walking but still I wonder: had something slipped from my pack
were these boys
black teens all neat and clean
here to help me?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet
is followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention could they address me more directly?
And worrying did I leave something behind,
swinging from one shoulder my backpack gently unwinds,
checking its contents for some peace of mind.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block halfway to the bus stop,
turning again to see these three men now halfway again between me
and the City.

“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask, obviously impatient.
Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, slightly afraid.
I now realize they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull out a gun?
Instead, I pull out a bus token.
His fears extinguished, thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”

Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” he commands.
“I don't have any.”
I am lying but am yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.

I sling my backpack back onto my back and turn with quickened pace.
They follow even quicker.
Soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, mere teens, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any," is all I my mind can muster:
chemicals explode inside my brain inside my body.

They close in around me, one comes in close to my right,
thin leader to my left, and another, a tag along, lays somewhat hidden behind.

My glance moves to my right,
and a sudden jab smacks my neck where juts the left edge of my jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing.
I scramble over a snow mound
step out into the street-side parking
create distance where none was before.

I pick up a chair in defense
and to this thin leader insists,
“I'm gonna kick your ass if you hit me with that."
As if I was the aggressor
as if I came for plunder
as if I was the one to trouble a stranger.
I step out into the slow moving oncoming traffic,
force at least one car to stop, force at least one person to call up the cops
and already the other two slink behind their brace faced leader,
not off into some mid-day shadow
but slinking off as if shamed
or else avoiding the blame.

Eyes now turn to the left
and damn the 40 rounds the corner of Belmont and Ford.
Dropping the chair I sprint down the lane,
hands waving in frantic motion,
adrenaline compelling unthinking action.
But memory's minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly woman
half hidden behind a telephone pole.
Running the final thirty feet, pulling token from pocket, boarding the bus.
Heart beating a thousand times a minute.

And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed
on this my birthday.

Belmont & City Mid-day; Draft #3

Snow lingers longer in shadow
and the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards: crumbling concrete
bricks turned to dust beaten down by shovel and plow.

Breath takes form in frigid air
its heart beating mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates in the lower atmosphere.

Ice packed snow mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
put holds on street-side parking,
these spaces carved out not for passersby
in this city of brotherly love.

I am bundled against cold on an otherwise clear day,
navigating labyrinthine and icy paths.
Passing three young men
quietly I turn down Belmont Avenue.
Head down, my mark the steps in front of my toes.
Head down, I slow march toward the bus stop marked 40.

From behind comes a low grumbled yell.
Turning my head appears now in view
the three young men huddled together,
against the cold?
and who would want to talk to me?
Who would even know me 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where I only spend minutes passing
between work and the Forty
at the corner of Belmont and City.
Resuming my motion still I wondered: had something slipped from my pack
were these boys
black teens all neat and clean
here to help me?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet
and is followed by another gruff yell.
But if someone wants my attention,
could they address me more directly?
And worrying whether I left something behind,
swinging from one shoulder my backpack gently unwinds,
checking its contents for some peace of mind.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block halfway to the bus stop,
turning again to see these three men now halfway again between me
and the City.

“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask, obviously impatient.
Still huddled, thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull out a gun?
Pulling out a bus token
I extinguish their fears
so thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”

Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” he commands.
“I don't have any.”
(I am lying, but yet am unwilling to forsake sixteen quarters
tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.)

I sling my backpack back on and turn with quickened pace.
They follow even quicker.
Soon amidst ice and snow in craggy mounds,
three boys, mere teens, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any.”
Chemicals explode inside my brain inside my body.
They close in around me, one comes in close to my right,
thin leader to my left, and another, a tag along, lays somewhat hidden behind.

My glance moves to my right,
and a sudden jab smacks my neck where juts the left edge of my jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing.
I scramble over a snow mound
step out into the street-side parking
create distance where none was before.

I pick up a chair in defense
and to this thin leader insists,
“I'm gonna kick your ass if you hit me with that."
As if I was the aggressor
as if I came for plunder
as if I was the one to trouble a stranger.
I step out into the slow moving oncoming traffic,
force at least one car to stop, force at least one person to call up the cops
Already two slink behind their brace faced leader,
not off into some shadow mid-day
but slink as if shamed
or avoiding the blame.

eyes to the left now they turn,
and damn the 40 rounds the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto that bus!
Dropping the chair I sprint down the lane,
hands waving in frantic motion,
adrenaline compelling unthinking action.
But memories minutes mere moments
as seconds of time,
and damn the feet fly by!

But then it slows down for an elderly lady
half hidden from view behind a telephone pole.
Running final thirty feet, pulling token from pocket, boarding the bus.
Heart beating a thousand times a minute.

And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed
on this my birthday.

Belmont and City Mid-day; Draft #2

Snow lingers longest in the shadows
the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape
shape sidewalks and front yards: crumbling concrete
bricks turned to dust and such as lives
are beaten down by the plow.

Breath takes form against the cold
its heart beats mere moments
until it shivers and dissipates into the lower atmosphere.

Snow and ice packed mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
put holds on street-side parking,
explaining the value of hard work,
that though shovel and cold hand can undo
chemistry dropped from cloud and sky,
these spaces carved out not for passersby,
in this city of brotherly love.

I leave work early, the price I pay for working with students on a cold December day.
Bundled against cold on an otherwise clear day,
I navigate icy paths that mark haphazard sidewalks,
turn the corner onto Belmont Avenue and quietly I pass three young men;
mere teenagers in this fast-tick life.
Head down, I make toward a bus stop marked for the 40,
head down, I look forward to the evening of my birthday.

A yell fills the air between my ears,
I turn to look, the three young men stand huddled together:
against the cold?
Not another word, so I guess who would want to talk to me,
who would even know me, here 2 miles from home,
here in this city of strangers,
here where it takes me only moments to pass between bus stop and the HLC.
I turn back to walking, and yet I wonder, did I drop something,
is some gentle spirit trying to help this wayward traveler?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet,
and another gruff yell, but I think if someone wants my attention,
better to address me than general utterances in this open air.
But still, I wonder, did I leave something drop?
Swinging my backpack onto one shoulder
I rummage, checking its contents.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block, halfway to the bus stop.
I turn again, these three men now following me,
now halfway again between me and City Line Avenue.
“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask, obviously impatient.

Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come with aid,
but could they really think I mean to pull a gun on them?
I pull out a bus token.
Their fears extinguished, they stride toward me,
thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”

Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” as they walk closer.
“I don't have any.”
I am lying, but I'm yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters I keep tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.

I sling my backpack back on, and turn with quickened pace,
but they follow even quicker.
Soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, mere teens, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, and again thin leader demands money.
“I don't have any.”
Chemicals inside my body inside my brain explode,
they close in around me, one young thug comes in close to my right,
thin leader to my left, another, perhaps a tag along, is somewhat hidden behind.

I look to my right
and a sudden jab marks a spot beneath my left ear where juts my neck and jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing,
Is this really happening? Are these puppy dog teens really trying to pull this off?
I quickly scramble over a snow mound, step out into a parking space,
create distance where none was before.
Picking up a chair, all I can think to defend myself.

Thin leader insists, “If you hit me with that I'm gonna kick your ass.”
As if I was the aggressor, as if I came for plunder, as if I was the one to trouble a stranger with intimidation and violence.
Seeing traffic coming from my right, I step out into it, to force the cars to stop, force someone to look around.
Already two have slunk back behind brace faced leader,
slunk away not into shadow (as this is mid-day)
but slunk as if now shamed by their failed venture.

A sight I must have been! Rickety chair upheld, standing in the street!
But turning to my left, I see the 40 round the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto the bus!
I drop the chair and sprint down the middle of the lane,
sprinting waving hands in frantic motion, but the driver doesn't see me.
And then it slows to pick up an elderly lady,
a woman I had missed half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from my pocket, board the bus.

Heart beating a thousand times a minute, mind racing.
And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed.

Belmont and City Line Mid-day; Rough Draft

Snow lingers longest in the shadows
the cold clinging fingers of winter scrape and shape
sidewalks and front yards: crumbling concrete
bricks turned to dust in the tumult of shovels
and plows and beaten down lives.

Breath takes form against the cold
its beating heart alive only moments
as it shivers and dissipates into the lower atmosphere.

Snow and ice packed mounds line streets,
plastic and fake wood cheap chairs
put holds on street-side parking,
explaining to the value of hard work,
that though shovel and cold hand can undo
chemistry dropped from cloud and sky,
these spaces carved out not for passersby,
not for the weak of mind or frail of body:
in this city of brotherly love.

I leave work early, the price I pay for working with students on a cold December day.
Bundled against cold on otherwise clear day,
I navigate icy paths that mark haphazard sidewalks,
I turn the corner and quietly I pass three young men;
mere teenagers in the fast tick lives of African Americans.
Down Belmont toward a bus stop marked for the 40,
head down, looking forward to the evening of my birthday.

A yell fills the air between my ears,
I turn to look, three men huddled together:
against the cold?
Not another word, so I guess who would want to talk to me,
who would even know me, here where I work, here where
I pass only moments between bus stop and HLC.
I turn, and yet I wonder, did I drop something,
is some gentle spirit trying to help this wayward traveler?

Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet,
and another gruff yell, but I think if someone wants my attention,
better to address me than general utterances to the open air.
But still, I wonder, did I leave something drop?
Swinging my backpack onto one shoulder
I rummage, checking its contents.
Packed ice skitters against the backs of my feet.

I am now halfway down the block, halfway to the bus.
I turn again, these three men now following me,
now halfway again between me and the street corner.
“Can I help you guys with something?” I ask obviously impatient.
Still huddled, their thin leader asks, “What are you getting out of your bag?”
He sounds angry, perhaps slightly afraid.
It is now I know they do not come to return something I might have dropped,
but could they really think I mean to pull a gun on them?
I pull out a bus token.
Their fears extinguished, they stride towards me,
thin leader demands, “Give us a bus token.”
Anger tinges my voice, “I don't have anymore.”
“Give us some money,” as they walk closer.
“I don't have any.” I am lying,
but I'm yet unwilling to forsake the sixteen quarters I keep tucked deep in my bag,
emergency funds for emergency rides.

I sling my backpack back on, and turn, pace is quickened.
But they follow even quicker.
Soon amidst craggy mounds of ice and snow,
three boys, mere teens, their thin leader's teeth bound with braces,
surround me, thin leader demanding my money.
“I don't have any.”
They close in around me, one young thug comes in close in to my right,
thin leader to my left, another, perhaps a tag along, somewhat hides behind thin leader.

I look to my right, and a sudden jab marks a spot beneath my left ear where juts my neck and jaw.
Adrenaline fueled, I feel nothing,
Is this really happening? Are these puppy dog teens really trying to pull this off?
I quickly scramble over a snow mound, step out into a parking space,
create distance where none was before.
Pick up a chair, something to defend myself.
Thin leader insists, “If you hit me with that I'm gonna kick your ass.”
As if I was the aggressor, as if I came for plunder, as if I was the one to trouble a stranger with violence and intimidation.
I see traffic coming, so I step out into it, force the cars to stop, force someone to look around,
But already two have slunk back behind brace faced leader, slunk away not into shadow as this is mid-day, but slunk as if to create distance from themselves and their failed venture.
A sight I must have been! Rickety chair upheld, standing in the street!
But I turn to my left, and see my bus round the corner.
Get on the bus! Get out of here and onto my bus!
I drop the chair and sprint down the middle of the lane,
sprinting waving hands in frantic motion, but the driver doesn't see me.
And then, it slows to pick up an elderly lady, half hidden behind a telephone pole.
I run the final thirty feet, pull the token from my pocket, board the bus,
and am off.
Heart beating a thousand times a minute, mind racing.
And though my neck and jaw will be sore for a few days
I am otherwise unscathed.