THEY KNOW ME:

the waitresses, bus
boys, hack
drivers, bar
tenders, bums,
workers
in dead end jobs
who dream
fantastic dreams;
blackandwhiteandbrownandyellow pure
and mixed womenandmen
oldandyoung carefree
or humped over,
who do it,
grind against it,
everyday.
they know
if they're not there,
they're going there;
a "there" that finds me
there,
because I've been there,
am there
and will be there
for however long
forever is.
They know
I've arrived
first
and still stand
amongst the wreckage
and pillars
of my life
and know parts
of theirs.

There are others
who nibble
around the edges
liking the taste
in small doses
still thinking
they control a part
of who they think
they are.
I don't quibble
with them;
but instead
allow them
room
to find their own
failures
or march to an easy
delusion that moves
each of us
to the graves edge.

It's the others
who provide me
with hope: a free tea
or coffee, shutting
the meter off
on my ride home,
or pushing my "case" ten
back to me from the lip
of the bar;
or charging me less
than half
for their late night touch.
There is little dialogue,
no "thank you,"
no stupid cordiality
that greases commerce;
just a nod,
and a smile--inner
and outer
to
and fro
across the ages
of what only seems
like a limitless
divide.

Happy New Year
to all us travelers
everywhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012