reading Bukowski, at a high top table by the coffee shop in the bookstore, a man's voice, but little, pricks my ears, pulling my eyes from the prose...
"i like your mohawk."
"i guess people look at you different, huh?'
"oh, i don't know. as long as i am comfortable with it, right?"
"i used to have one, six months ago. they called me last of the mohicans."
"i guess people will think what they want, you just have to decide if you mind."
gap toothed, fro tight, he's maybe five-six, mid-twenties, festive scarf around his neck, bright as the grin on his face. one eye drifts just enough to notice...
"you are not from around here are you?"
"i grew up not too far from here but i have lived up and down the coast. how about you?"
"oh, i have always lived in the south, but here is where i have been mostly. i would not mind living in South Carolina or Atlanta. i like the warm feel of the people."
"both are nice places."
"yeah i don't know that i could live in a place like New York. they might make fun of me cause i am different."
"New York is pretty cool, i have visited there. lots to do. lot of art. lot of different people. i think you might be alright."
"i just don't think i would fit."
wiping his hand on his jeans, he extends it in expectation, his skin a bit dry as i take it. we exchange first names and i invite him to sit. i don't know him, but i see in him he just needs to fit somewhere and for twenty minutes, it's at a high top table by the coffee shop in a bookstore.
just him and me, as the world blurs around us.