Grand Central Night

Overcoat on the floor
rises up and rolls
apocalyptic blues
down the polished stones
of the midnight terminus.
	“I’m a nigger,” he says.
	You’re just drunk.
	“...A damn blackass nigger.”

In the vacant hallways
between a kiss and a train
we backed our bottoms up
onto the marble bench
of an elegant, high Victorian
shoe-shine stand.
	“I have a dream,” he says
	“but you have a slick little lady,”
	What do you want me to do about that?

He waltzes up to us
on our high shoe-shine throne,
A hand inspects my sleeve
the other her knee, 
rebel or buffoon
here from the provinces.
	“Let’s do something slick,” he says.
	We’re going.
	“You’re going to let me down.”