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Watermelon Man
His black, like the cool clay
That plays between my fingers
On a languid summer's day, as
I drift in aimless thought.
The heat beating down on him and his
Melons, puctuating his oppression,
A sterotype on the side of the road.
The traffic slows to merge onto the Willis Avenue
Bridge. His wares sweating. Blood red
Drops wash his brow, rivulets of steam
Rise through the tight nappy curls, glistening
Under the reflected light from the glass building
Across the road. He melts! A dark puddle
Rippling in a red oasis struggling to exist.
