I stood at the corner
of Tenth and Cherry
in the morning sun,
waiting for the smoke shop
to open up–battered,
bruised and damn near broken,
cussing quietly to myself
in languages I had not
previously known existed.
Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a German Shepherd's
shadow and got whipped
by his tail several times
as he circled around me
in excitement, which
bound me in his leash
of Lakers purple and gold.
Therapy saved my life
in that strange moment:
deep breathing,
cool and calm once
I saw that his owner
who I initially
had wanted to scream at
was a hardcore skinhead,
his face covered in
tattoos of burning skulls.
He said sorry about that.
He unwrapped me from
my chains, and I quietly
thanked him in my head
for not murdering me.
I continued to stand,
waiting, looking
at the pigeons lined up
along the telephone line,
wondering how
I was going to avoid
the path of their shit,
rotten splatters against
dangerous pavement
in an urban wild kingdom
where errands are cursed
by surprise booby traps—
kindness is a useful armor,
no matter how pissed off I get.