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“yes.”

but in my mind I changed it to, yes,

he can poop.

he looked like a poop.

the whole world pooped while I

was knotted up inside like a pretzel.

then we would walk out on the street

and I would look at the people passing

and all the people had behinds.

“that’s all I ever noticed,” he told me,

“it was horrible.”

“we must have had similar

childhoods,” I said.

“somehow, that doesn’t help at all,”

he said.

“we’ve both got to get over this

thing,” I said.

“I’m trying,” he

answered.

Phillipe’s 1950

Phillipe’s is an old time

cafe off Alameda street

just a little north and east of

the main post office.

Phillipe’s opens at 5 a.m.

and serves a cup of coffee

with cream and sugar

for a nickel.

in the early mornings

the bums come down off Bunker Hill,

as they say,

“with our butts wrapped

around our ears.”

Los Angeles nights have a way

of getting very

cold.

“Phillipe’s,” they say,

“is the only place that doesn’t

hassle us.”

the waitresses are old

and most of the bums are

too.

come down there some

early morning.

for a nickel

you can see the most beautiful faces

in town.

downtown

nobody goes downtown anymore

the plants and trees have been cut away around

Pershing Square

the grass is brown

and the street preachers are not as good

as they used to be

and down on Broadway

the Latinos stand in long colorful lines

waiting to see Latino action movies.

I walk down to Clifton’s cafeteria

it’s still there

the waterfall is still there

the few white faces are old and poor

dignified

dressed in 1950s clothing

sitting at small tables on the first

floor.

I take my food upstairs to the

third floor—

all Latinos at the tables there

faces more tired than hostile

the men at rest from their factory jobs

their once beautiful wives now

heavy and satisfied

the men wanting badly to go out and raise hell

but now the money is needed for

clothing, tires, toys, TV sets

children’s shoes, the rent.

I finish eating

walk down to the first floor and out,

and nearby is a penny arcade.

I remember it from the 1940s.

I walk in.

it is full of young Latinos and Blacks

between the ages of six and

fifteen

and they shoot machine guns

play mechanical soccer

and the piped-in salsa music is very

loud.

they fly spacecraft

test their strength

fight in the ring

have horse races

auto races

but none of them want their fortunes told.

I lean against a wall and

watch them.

I go outside again.

I walk down and across from the Herald-

Examiner building

where my car is parked.

I get in. then I drive away.

it’s Sunday. and it’s true

like they say: the old gang never

goes downtown anymore.

elephants in the zoo

in the afternoon

they lean against

one another

and you can see how much

they like the sun.

(uncollected)

girl on the escalator

as I go to the escalator

a young fellow and a lovely young girl

are ahead of me.

her pants, her blouse are skintight.

as we ascend

she rests one foot on the

step above and her behind

assumes a fascinating shape.

the young man looks all

around.

he appears worried.

he looks at me.

I look

away.

no, young man, I am not looking,

I am not looking at your girl’s behind.

don’t worry, I respect her and I respect you.

in fact, I respect everything: the flowers that grow, young women,

children, all the animals, our precious complicated

universe, everyone and everything.

I sense that the young man now feels

better and I am glad for

him. I know his problem: the girl has

a mother, a father, maybe a sister or

brother, and undoubtedly a bunch of

unfriendly relatives and she likes to

dance and flirt and she likes to

go to the movies and sometimes she talks

and chews gum at the same time and

she enjoys really dumb TV shows and

she thinks she’s a budding actress and she

doesn’t always look so good and she has a

terrible temper and sometimes she almost goes

crazy and she can talk for hours on the

telephone and she wants to go