Don't forget to write about the writhing man,
how he stood at angles so low as to be impossible,
how his repeated, long wheezing exhalations brought him
to his knees, nearly, hovering inches above the ground,
almost parallel with the sidewalk.
Knobby knuckle clasped on cane, stanchion for a once grander frame.
All he wanted, really, all he wanted, finally after his escort from the greek restaurant
by the police called by the waiter he'd gone to high school with,
(he should've known better, the wrything man said),
was for me to help him to open his Starburst candy, the brightness
so unlikely in his thickened fingers.
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