dalliad--i don't know. this is in progress.

sitting on a cardboard box under a bridge in the city,
Dallas in the rain, reflected green, never seemed so pretty
                                                grimy,
                                                        and hard.
street lights and brakes, blinkers and neon
blur in my vision,
as i drown in the sounds of the city
muted by drizzle:
        wet tires approaching and receding
              like an urban tide;
              if i close my eyes i am on a cold northern coast
              wind whipped, wrapped tightly in a light coat.
        sirens in the distance have been lifted
              by the wind;
              they drift under the bridge where i sit
              and mix with the chatter of the troll
whose party i crashed.

He tells me tales of years past
glory days lived fast and half fabricated.
              memories of playing music in juke joints that never existed
              memories of women who vanished like mist in the sun,
                    slowly faded.

His calloused hands hang limp off his knees
    except when he points a gritted finger at the city
    or when he takes the wine from me.
He lifts it throught the wiry brush of hair around his lips
    and tilts his bald head back to drink
    before passing the bottle back to me.
He sucks the air in between his few pomigranate seed teeth
                                            then continues to speak.

"shit, son,"
He turns his dark, direct eyes to mine.
"i know you ain't believe half of my life.
             "you think i'm liein'."
i laugh, put the bottle down
and pull out a sack of grass and orange pack of zig zags.
He smiles, unleashing enough reason for five DDM suicides.
"i was makin babies
    "years beofre you were born.
 "Lived off Live Oak with my lady
         "in the landry years.
"had a gold 77 deville on white walls.
"used to ball the bitch in the back seat.
"(made her put a towel down.
"didn't want to fuck up the caddi.)
"But i had lots of cars,
"and lots of women.
"i had a mustang and a blond bitch to suck me off in it.
"mostly on a account of the fact a how i sold coke.
"i moved through cars and women so fast
"i don't remember half of em.

"But i remember my first boy.
"and i remember my ol lady off Live Oak.
"she wasn't no fiend.
"she was damn good. pretty and smart.
"so i planted my seed, you know?
"and we staid together the better part
"a three years.

"i got a legit job at Oil Depot, lubin cars.
"put away the coke.
"i was with her when she delivered at st paul's.
"we watched his first step,
"heard his first words.

"but it was hell makin ends meet at 4.15 an hour.
"and my old firends started comin back round.
"th'ol'lady didn't like that one none.
"she knew right quick what was gon happen 'fore it did.

"money problems got too much,
  "and i was back in the powder.
"after a few months,
  "powder brought back the bitches.

"there was fights--
 "me n my ol lady lightin up Live Oak.
       "Knock down drag out.
"baby crying in the corner.
  "my ol lady throwin shoes.
"me yellin at her across the top of the cadillac,
"the last time u saw her.

"i moved into a hotel with a string of bitches
  "i couldn't name if my life depended on it.
  "i was movin kis--.  hell, the only reason
  "i wasn't busted was cuz
  "one of them bitches got me into crack--"
he pauses as i pass him the joint--
  "haven't seen my son since."

We sit in silence as we finish the weed,
then i get up and give him the end of the pluck,
  the last of the wine.
his grunt suffices for both thanks and goodbye
as i walk out from under the over pass
and out into under the sky.

Leaving the troll under his bridge, i walk down town--
the rain abates-- leaving the wind and damp
atmosphere behind it--.
i head down Elm.  spy a slitary biddy on the street ahead of me
she fades away and resurfaces in the street lights as i follow,
my footsteps muffled by rubber soles ad wet asphalt.
in shadows she ducks left.
i stay straight.
it's a long walk.
two homeless men fight over the last of a forty
that breaks in their struggles.
others sleep in stroe front alcoves.
it's getting late,
but i'm still early to meet jackie.
i sit alone at the bar nursing a jack and coke.
shaft of light from track spots glow in the
diaphonous rolls of smoke, laughter and half hearted conversation
that reverberate of the fake oak panels and painted walls.
the door opens, iturn, smile and laugh at the lascivious looks of the men,
ankle to ass, as jackin saunters past them to sit with me
only--
when the door opens, it's not jackie.
and i'm not laughing.
i'm waiting.