by Gilbert Purdy

It just gives me the willies, how he stares;
at Eleanor, not me; well, sometimes
at me, too; sometimes his hair's
all sticking out like this. Christ,
why do we get all the fucking weirdos
here? I already talked to the cops:
they said give the word and off he goes.
You want these both in travel cups,
right? Well, they don't pay me enough
to put up with that: only three-seventy-five,
and the tips don't come to all that much.
You've seen him; I know you know the guy;
you know, the guy who walks like this;
I'm sure he was here the other day
when you and I both sat with Chris.
Yeah, he's the one: with his hair that way.
And then he just goes off sometimes;
you know: fuck-this, fuck-that. Screaming.
It's just that you're not here those times;
he can get pretty scarey, believe me.
I'm telling you the guy is odd;
he just keeps saying, 'You're really cute.'
If he touches me, so help me God,
there are knives back here that I will use.
I think we should call him Dances with Pigeons;
doesn't he strike you that way, too'
You know, the way he sits there, with his
head down, staring at his shoes.
Isn't there something you can take
for your schizophrenia? Isn't there?
Oh, I don't mean you; I mean a case
like him where all he does is stare.
No, he just wasn't bad right then;
believe me, you'd also see he was
if you were here to see him when
he started doing the things he does.
It goes in phases is what they say;
it's harder to see then is all; you
just aren't here when he's that way.
My skin crawls when he says, 'You're cute!'

Gilbert Wesley Purdy writes poetry, prose and translations. His work has appeared (and/or is scheduled to appear) in many paper and electronic journals, throughout the United States, Canada and Great Britain, including: Poetry International; Grand Street; SLANT; The Neovictorian/Cochlea; Elimae; and the Danforth Review.