90 OxfordPoets 2010

Discreet

Anyone could have killed him, anything on the street. Cigarettes, booze, a penny dropped, the wind, the rain, maybe the sun or sleet.

It wasn’t our fists or the flash of our feet. I couldn’t hear, but it wasn’t the push down the stairs. Anything could have killed him. Anything on the street.

It wasn’t the ride in the trunk, or even the fire, the heat. Anyone could have killed him. But I guess it was Joe. With the bat. Not the wind, rain, sun, or sleet.

Mike would say dudes should keep discreet, and Bill would say we didn’t ask for his spit or his rag. Anything could have killed him, anything on the street.

Everyday he begged like we owed him, hand out for a piece and if it wasn’t us it would have been something else: the wind, the rain, maybe the sun or sleet.

And I guess the cops see it all the time, down on that beat and if they care it hasn’t made the papers or buzzed the air. If it did, folks’d say anything could kill a man on the street; could have been the wind, the rain. Maybe the sun or sleet.