I sit on the stoop,
my new stoop,
Clinton St.
drinking a coffee
that I got next-door
at La Vara,
and sitting on stoop,
reading a book called
Ballad of the Whiskey Robber.
smoking a cigarette,
and waiting to see Dave Monks walk by,
when a girl asks me for a light.
from pocket, I produce a Zippo
that says Coyote Blood,
then she asks for a cigarette,
and I huff and puff,
but she is stunning
and so I give in.
she was a BK cliche,
with tiny shoes
and a shirt made of denim.
we were silent
at lighting,
and she stood aloof,
so I offered her one of my
new stoop steps
and she accepted.
she asked me what I did,
and when I said writer,
she looked like she didn't believe me,
but mostly like I am a cliche
in this hood,
I get it, but I am.
she was/is a seamstress,
and I gave her the same business,
and then before she left, I gave her
my number and dared her to call me.
she won't, but it's okay,
she smelled good, which
made me think that she really didn't smoke cigs,
and that is okay, because
neither did I.