fashion district

by Andrew English | 2009

Born in 1984, he could have been my brother -
burlap hair braided smog blonde
swept just above blue, atmospheric eyes.

One divorce and a busted street race
left him with a backpack and bionic legs,
getting his daily treatment from tourists.

"If you love music, man that's the way,"
I heard him say in stride. "I never could
sing or play, but that's where the money is."

We wandered out to the missions, that black
sea, like a pair of bold question marks, and
no one asked my name or where I came from.

I remember my first time on the ocean, without
a rock to stand on. I knew creatures lived and
died around me all the time, eating and being eaten.

This dive pulled the goggles off my face.
The salt didn't burn like they say -
I simply swung my arms in a false, uncertain way.

He cited his unwritten handbook, with speeches
and with high fives. I learned lonely from sick,
needy from need and healthy from health.

He showed me free doughnuts and generic cokes,
nine dollars worth of forgetting,
the fastest route to an empty bathroom.

I didn't know whether to be pissed or pleased.
My four dollars floated around Skid Row,
then rode the wires back to East Asia.

My sudden friend, living on day old pastries and
knockoff soda somewhere between these two
oceans - you gave me the best tour four bucks can buy.