Archive for the 'men' Category



at the cafe

The blind man and his bull dyke guide are back today. He follows her, half a step behind, his hand resting on her shoulder. He moves timidly, tapping his cane in an arc in front of him, his ears attuned to her whispered translations of what it is like to see this room, these obstacles. But when she moves his hand to the back of the chair, the scene changes key. He straightens up and casts a great smile up at the sky. I wish you could see him. He’s wearing slick wraparound glasses and a shiny red jacket. He looks more like a space man than a blind man. He’s got his knuckles on the table, keeping time, he nods along as the woman talks. She’s speaking ardently. You know, with her hands.

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at the polls

A young, burly guy tries to hand me a flyer. “I already voted,” I say.

“Did you vote for Bill,” he asks, holding up the flyer, his candidate smiling confidently on it.

“This is America,” I say, smiling. “I don’t have to tell you who I voted for.”

“You don’t have to, but c’mon. It’s me,” he says, hand over heart.

I’ve never seen him before in my life.

near the university

Two men are walking, side by side. The smaller one is lightly holding the other’s backpack strap. Just that.

on the corner

Tall guy says to me, “You’re a beautiful lady, you just made my day walkin’ by here.”

Little guy crossing the street says, “Mine too.”

Tall guy calls out to him, “Right? You work all day, you deserve to see something beautiful.”

Little guy says, “It’s like the icing.”

on the corner

That guy who wanted to carry my groceries is back. He’s not looking so fine today, a grubby t-shirt and sweat beading up on the dome of his head. He’s pacing off some anger, punching the air. “He’s not even a citizen. What’s he talking about,” he grumbles to the guys by the bodega. He spits in the gutter. “Cocksucker.”

in the projects

That old dude with the beatnik beard is strolling around like he owns the place. The corner boys let it ride.

near the university

Two young Italian men are strolling down the sidestreet. They’re in dirty jeans, plain thick hoodies, they have the chalky hands of laborers. But everything about them is elegant. Their faces are framed by loose dark curls. Each man leans back into his gait, every step as languid and sensual as the long vowels that trail off at the ends of their sentences. I let them pass by and then I walk behind them for a long time, listening to their lullaby voices, understanding nothing.