I sit on the tracks，

    a hundred feet from

    earth， fifty from the

    water. Gerald is

    inching toward me

    as grim， slow， and

    determined as a

    season， because he

    has no trade and wants

    none. It's been nine months

    since I last listened

    to his fate， but I

    know what he will say：

    he's the fire hydrant

    of the underdog.

    When he reaches my

    point above the creek，

    he sits down without

    salutation， and

    spits profoundly out

    past the edge， and peeks

    for meaning in the

    ripple it brings. He

    scowls. He speaks： when you

    walk down any street

    you see nothing but

    coagulations

    of shit and vomit，

    and I'm sick of it.

    I suggest suicide；

    he prefers murder，

    and spits again for

    the sake of all the

    great devout losers.

    A conductor's horn

    concerto breaks the

    air， and we， two doomed

    pennies on the track，

    shove off and somersault

    like anesthetized

    fleas， ruffling the

    ideal locomotive

    poised on the water

    with our light， dry bodies.

    Gerald shouts

    terrifically as

    he sails downstream like

    a young man with a

    destination. I

    swim toward shore as

    fast as my boots will

    allow； as always，

    neglecting to drown.