The crowd moves like a sluggish centipede
in pieces
never at once
never in uniform
the slow chaos of motion

The brown man
brown jacket, brown slacks, brown shoes, brown life
moves quickly from painting to painting
squinting blindly through his thick brown glasses
not at the paint, but at the plaques
as if searching for a famous title by which he might be impressed

Later
out of the cold and into the bar
a grisly version of my grandmother oogles the guitarist on stage
She is lecherous with drink and with desperation that I can smell from my table
I do my best to ignore her
watching as a drunk ready to explode wanders dangerously near my feet

AcB 02.24.01