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Atlanta
He ran off a couple of teenage
girls on the way in,
and I watched them pedaling
away, laughing at the man
and I wondered what he'd said,
as he approached the counter
of my convenience store.
He came to me empty-handed,
with a smile missing a few teeth,
wearing khaki pants held up
only by a cinching belt, hair
cut to the scalp, eyes on fire.
Nobody surprised me in Miami
anymore, I'd seen them all, especially
after a rock concert, when the thirsty
spotted my oasis of cold beer still open.
I said, "What can I do for you?"
Figured he wanted some rolling
papers, but seemed a little old
to be doing grass. "Well, can you
tell me...the way to Atlanta?"
I caught myself pointing north
before I realized that everything
was north of Miami. Then, I knew.
"I just got out," he said, with that holocaust
smile of the recently rescued. "Oh, the
state hospital, right up the road here?" I said.
"Yep, and I have a terrible headache.
Do you have any aspirin?"
I went over to the shelf, opened a bottle
of Bufferin, got a cup of water, and watched
him down two, as the South Florida sunset
began its evening show of pinks and reds.
"Do you have a bus ticket, or something?"
He patted his back pocket.
"Oh, yeah. Just wanted to know the way."
ã Millard R. Howington (200!)
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