the donut man

motioned me ahead of him
in line
at the quicky-mart.

thanks,
i nodded
holding two forties
at the neck.

little black girl
in front of us
was counting out pennies
for a
two-liter of
mountain dew.

his dark blue shirt
was covered
in sweat.

i asked him
if he had ac
in his truck.

very very hot
in there,
he said
in a thick
african accent.

told me his name was joseph,
he was from senegal,
been in the country
three months.

i'd seen his truck
when i came in,
it was a newer model.

that things gotta have ac
let me take a look
when you get done,
i said
as the clerk
rang me up.

he hopped in the drivers side
leaned over
and opened the passenger door.

son of a bitch
was on
full bore heat.

i flipped it to
full blast cool,
showed him the
regulator lever
in case it got
too cold.

he whistled low
like an incoming howitzer
and flashed a snowstorm
of white teeth.

welcome to america,
i smiled
and asked him
what he knew
about turn signals.



fishing with larry

first week here i lent my vacuum cleaner to
larry down the hall. an old crouton:
liver spots on his dome: said he was on ssdi for some heart condition.
i didn't think much of it for a week.
then i knocked on his door. nothing.
then a door across the hall creaked open a few inches:
oh larry took you fishing didn't he?
came a female voice like cigarette smoke
doused in cat piss.
she told me you can't borrow nothing to larry
cause' he'll hawk it for nigger cocaine. i thanked her for the info
and asked if there were any other
procedural quirks i needed to know around here.
she said she didn't know what
procedural quirks was but
she'd eat my pud
for a ten-spot.



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