Tello

The last time I saw him:

hair forcing into the hazy
sky like jade stalagmites.
Eyes flashing, vagrant's arms
dancing with the air,
a Broadway king
or a police chase.
His ebony sculpted self
strode and strutted,
thrusting himself deep into
the words of the world.

He'd paced the street divide
telling summer tourists
of tempests at sea.
Squeezing the essence of angst,
pulling teenagers from their MP3s.
Reminding brothers to watch their back
but to trust their women.
Old and new they watched him
the imp or the African Oberon.
A magic moment in the midday rush.

Encounters brief but never empty
always a story or a lesson
to take away with me
to my next stop
a new song to check out,
one of his Mom,
now gone,
taking him to Stratford
when he was just three.

I'd given him my number,
just in case
he needed - anything,
but knowing it was for me,
my urge to mark him,
to tag this majestic
endangered man-child.

He was alive, vital, vicious,
loved and loving to be free.
Soaring and twisting,
an asphalt hawk,
unaware of the chasm,
a sharp pointed death below.

The light turned green
yet they all paused
and he spread his arms,
arched his back and laughed
in victory or in sublimation.
He'd nearly choked on that burning glee.

The last time . . .

That's wrong, though.
He was beautiful
but not that time,
not the last time.

The last time I saw Tello:

Arm still clutched to his chest
as if he'd hoped
that his spirit
would sear out the pain.
Needing a mother, a friend,
someone to give him more
or someone to make it end,
needing to call
my number still on his skin,
just in case
he needed - anything,
mockingly underlined
by fresh track marks
on his precious, infected
three day old flesh.