Jorge Bocobo

Up and down the street
every dog was barking,
as if holding a council meeting
on the burgeoning
cat problem in the area.

The sun missed last night's events,
arriving just in time for
the bleary-eyed stumblers
marking their territory with
scattered beer bottles and
cigarette butts; hailing cabs from
taxi drivers who have no choice but
to hear their selfish stories.

But every step of the pavement
announced a squeak of my shoes,
which signaled to everyone
(the lady breastfeeding
her daughter, the panhandler
looking for hope in his plastic cup
and the guard trying to stay awake)
that I was headed in their direction.

The dogs had adjourned their meeting
and I just looked forward,
pretending I wasn't aware of
my smudged finger prints
drawing attention from
a picture that wasn't mine.