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                                 Casual/wildbird
                                          Wild Birds
                    I expect nothing.  The sun is hot, the light ugly.  I walk, when
                 I can, in the shade of shopfronts.  My face is tight.  I hope for
                nothing.  I see women whose money has made them old.  Bright scarves
               shame their skin, creamy powder clogs their eyes' fine wrinkles, heavy
            earrings, chokers, bend down their necks.  Sweat drips from my fingers, and
             am I like them?  I see men whose eyes make me old.  Taut, vicious boys in
                 suits glance at me once, but not again.  Slow, dreamy blacks with
               deep-creased hands hold my gaze, and their faces don't change at all. 
              When shoulders brush my shoulders I feel bruised.  The lunch hour crowd
              returning from work in its good, painful shoes nearly crushes me, could
             have trampled me on the pavement.  Assholes with ponytails and twittering
                shopgirls clatter up behind me and past, busy, sexless and quick.  I
              stop walking.  I didn't see him.  Sure, who would want to?  Filthy bum.
                 Smiling.  Things in his mustache.  Why look at a thing like that? 
                                    Why look at a thing like me?
                                      	"Lady?  Find the Lady?"
                                               	"No."
                                                   
             	"Three chances to find the Lady, lady.  Double your money.  Little money
                                               down."
                	"No."  I'm still standing there.  He's reaching up.  The cracks in
                   his fingers are black, his fingers are yellow.  Filth-yellow. 
              Gray-yellow.  Dirtier than money.  I put money in them, smooth money too
              old to rustle.  It's gone like that.  He's all business, now, he doesn't
                                               smile.
                 	"Three cards, lady."  He lays them out.  "Which one's the Lady? 
                                   Which one's the Queen of Joy?"
                   	I point, not with my hand.  My small foot, five white piggies,
            crushed to a point, points at the middle card.  My blue shoe, my blue-green
                      office shoe points for me.  It matches my scarf, my bag.
                 	"No, lady, not the deuce, we want to find the the Lady.  Show me
                         my pretty Lady, I know I lost her somewhere here."
                	I haven't looked, my eyes are just above his head, it could be any
             card.  He doesn't have to cheat to fool me.  I point again, twitch to the
                                               left.
                  	"No, my lady, we want something softer than diamonds.  Not the
                                seven.  Find the Lady.  Try, lady."
                    	I look.  He's looking back.  His lost eyes only show their
             blackness, white and iris gone in folds of old skin.  He's sweating, same
              as me, same as everyone, water glinting in his ruined cheeks, his neck. 
                            He's not all that old.  Maybe forty?  Less?
                          	"I guess it must be the third card.  That one."
                  	"You, lose, lady, not there, not that one.  So much for double
                       your money.  Too bad.  Thought you were a lucky lady."
                  	I'm still standing there.  I wanted to see her.  He shuffles up
                           the cards, glances up the street, forgets me.
                                      	"I want to play again."
                                           	"How's that?"
                 	"I'll play again."  I hold out money.  "Three chances.  Double my
                                        money.  I'll play."
                 	"Tell you what."  The money's gone. "I like you, lady.  Why don't
                                    I show you where she lives."
                	Impossible to look at that face, or look away.  Gray, street color,
              and the inside of the mouth like a wound, like a flayed thing.  The wet
               stone eyes again, lost, unreachable; broken, unfixable. And the body. 
              Squat, smashed.  The fat, blunt fingers, clever at small things, tricky.
                               The swollen legs and shapeless trunk.

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                                        	"I like you, lady."
                                       	"Show me the Queen."
                	It doesn't surprise me.  The instant before, I know exactly what I
              asked for, what I'm getting, and his hand is on my shin.  My leg jerks,
              but not away.  His fingers are like smooth wood.  They catch on my panty
                                   hose.  He strokes, lightly.  
                              	"There's the Lady.  There's the Queen."
                 	My own face twists.  Water breaks from my eyes like glass chips. 
                What could make me want this?  What, ever?  There are people in the
                      street, am I this lost?  Am I this far from safety, from
              cleanness, white sheets?  I hope he will reach higher.  I hope his thick
            thumb finds my dirty, wrinkled part.  I hope he presses softly in, past the
             labia's weak protest, deep.  My shoulders shake, desperate, and I gasp and
             choke.  He strokes, still gentle, up, under my pretty skirt's stiff rim.  
                                 	"That's my pretty Queen of Joy."
                   	Desperate, I stare up the street.  If one face sees me I will
                become sane, will know I am being groped by a bum and lose myself in
              disgust.  But no one looks.  I realise I am completely safe.  No decent
                 eye will see this ugliness of the street.  By this mad act I have
              become the city's filth, as invisible as my starving attacker.  He tugs
              down my cotton panties, twiddles with my hair.  I could dare to moan.  I
           moan.  The louder I am, the deafer the walkers become.  Only prurient tourists
                hear.  I sink to my knees, and he finds the open place.  Filth.  His
               fingernail leaves traces of contagion in my softest flesh.  Vile.  He
             slides all the way out, shows me a bunch of three fingers, shoves that in.
                    	He has his own cock out now, and his stroke with himself is
              faster, more casual than with me.  It looks exactly like the last cock I
            saw, dark-headed, small, twisting a little away from him.  I am so full now
            that I feel my body is half his.  His fingers move independently inside me,
               rubbing against each other like a clutch of brother snakes.  Then the
              fourth slides in.  Its nail catches, a little stab.  My teeth grind, the
                 water on my face is half tears, half spittle.  I cry out as if for
                                        childbirth or death.
                   	After I come I stay, with him inside me.  I watch him, and he
               looks down at himself, at the site of his own pleasure.  He leaves his
               hand sunk in me, moving a little, and pumps up and down on himself.  I
               look.  I want to see this act when desire is finished.  I try to know
             exactly what grossness I have done.  I try to relearn disgust.  I can't. 
             When his semen flies, two drops land on my skirt.  I touch one.  His cries
             are strained and quiet, and he slumps against the grey wall, then looks up
                 at me.  Now he smiles, and, God, I see his browning, narrow teeth.
                                   	"You're quite a lady, Lady."
                	He takes his hand out of me, but I still don't stand for a while. 
                 I raise the hand that touched his semen to my mouth.  My damp hand
               shakes.  No one walks past.  Though no one looked at us, still we have
                  cleared the street.  I struggle up, survey the ruin of my hose.
                            	"Well, Lady, I sure hope to see you.  Hey?"
                	I go.  I leave my purse.  My face is wet and red, my feet stagger. 
                I try smiling at a girl I pass.  Terrified eyes flick away.  Good. 
             The invisibility's still working.  I'm inhuman for the duration.  The sun
               hits my body, the stink of trash fills my lungs, and I walk faster and
              faster.  At the corner I turn, and I must know this street but it looks
             different.  I put my head down and watch my blue-green shoes click on the
             pavement.  I turn another way, half run, half drag.  I can't say where I'm
             headed.  How could I possibly go back to work?  How could I possibly hope
                                           to find home?
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