Cabezón

I see you shuffle up Washington Street whenever I am driving much too fast: you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack from the slit of your pumpkin mouth, humped over like the eel-man or geek, the dummy paid to sweep out gutters, drown the cats. Where are you going now? Though someday you'll turn your gaze upon my shadow in this tinted glass I know for now you only look ahead at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked, hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?