Gypsy King, not

On line 9
There are all kinds of begging musicians
Romany for most
Some of them are good
They play old French classics
That only they know
How to play anymore
But today there was an old wino, white
With a dirty one-string violin that he
Seemingly had found in the trash
He looked despondent
Insane
He tried to play
It was like hearing a saw
It jolted everyone in the car
The man was wobbly acting
The sound was excruciating
I just wished he had a home
To go to
So that he’d stop
He fell
Remained there, helpless
Sawing had stopped
At last

Ellar Wise

A Cyclops

There’s a beggar
On Line 9
His gig is gross
He has an eye covered with a
Bloody and dirty oozing dressing
This guy has been there
Almost every day for years
Weeping out of his one eye
With the same bandage on his face
That he dipped in the sewer or somewhere
The routine is such that
Kids going to school
Are not scared and don’t care
Only tourists are impressed
Late at night
When the city’s real sorrow
Shows its crying face
I’ve never seen the guy
On Line 9
Beggars work 8-to-5

Single mother

Weekday
Very late really
She comes into the train
Going East
With a 7 or 8 y.o.
She looks ok
Shiny eyes, a bit wobbly but
Not mean
The kid too looks ok, hot
Red cheeks, tired
Tagging along
Bums, junkies, winos
Grey after work sad folks
Paris’ dirty underwear
In plain sight
I can’t help but think
What in hell is this kid doing
On Line 9 this late
I hope it’s good news

Catfish burning (2/2)

Anyway, one day, I talked to Jimmy about the Denis incident. I said: “Damn, Jimmy, for Christ’s sake, I know I’m a French idiot and I know I’m in Mississippi, and I know of ‘nigger’ here and ‘nigger’ there, but what the fuck gives with you and young Denis?”

Jimmy thought about it for a long time. “You’re looking for more work and more money, right?” Jimmy only asked me.

Well, that was the case so I said “Yes.”

Catfish burning (1/2)

For a white boy like me, Jimmy Clark was kind. He gave me a job and showed me Southern hospitality. This was Mississippi, the Magnolia State, and a white foreigner, French at that, was somewhat welcomed.

There was not an immigration bureau thousands of miles around and, for illegal wetbacks, Mississippi was a terra incognita where nobody asked questions to white folks as to why they were there. So, no question asked, I got a job with Jimmy Clark.