cramp

i'll take your painting in my arms
and tell you that it speaks to me

i'll come out in the cold and wind
in and out and tell you i support the arts

i'll fall ill
i'll scrunch my nose in telling you 'nah'
where there is noise and color
and bicycles and black hair

if you walked up Frankford
we'd be imagining two streets

in one, a young white American boy
and a friend of his, both no older than 15
cracks a lightning paw
into my pocket
and withdraws his lead
(this is how Bruce Lee instructed on using the 'lead')
just as sudden

'what?'

his still open
mouth his eyes

his pitter patter as he thundered
down a sidestreet
that are cursed
as unplowed

but nevertheless i stood there electrified, feet
tired, lonesome banter, in my hair
mix of sweat and septa,
continued walking the hour home
until finally, before Pennypack,
where I found myself nursing
with a patch of grass
my charlie horse

I catch the next 66
and become mistaken
for someone who killed
someone else's grandpa
in WWII