Laughing at the Sun

Freddy wakes up from a dream; he’s in a cave; the cave is home
Picks an orange while he shaves—from this secret spot, walks fifteen miles alone.
Past big houses where rich white folks
send their attack dogs to rid the streets of drifters like him.
Above the highway the sun burns a hole in the morning; heat rushes in.

He says for most folks it's a dead end river, they are drowning in the labor pool.
Two dozen men a day come to this restless place.
Where maybe they'll pour concrete, or lay pipes in the streets,
or take care of the lawns on the estates.

Freddy knows the papers inside out;
knows a million crooked deals are written in between the lines.
He tells me all his plans while digging holes faster than I ever could, planting passion vines.
Freddy made a sure thing out of luck—after work he hits the Jai A'lai he says he would win big
But he seldom wins a little, and he spends it on some lady friends
then goes back to hammer or to dig.

He's a big man and he laughs as big as oceans, talks as loud as a hurricane,
but as friendly as a breeze...

Freddy shakes the sweat out of his dreads—it’s late afternoon and this job is almost done.
He puts down his shovel, looks up at the sky and smiles as if he’s laughing at the sun.
He says people only piss away their dreams--high or drunk on the spoils of everyday.
But he's only got his freedom; he won't take a steady job, no address or rent to pay.

In the evening, Freddy's following the sun--figures what he'll do next day.
Maybe he'll pour concrete, or lay pipes in the streets, or take care of the lawns on the estates.

Copyright Tracy S. Feldman, All rights reserved