Sign

In those days
I was only five feet,
Six inches tall,
And angry with everything.
Everything. Even the snow
Wasn’t enough
To distinguish cold
And flush of old heat.

I stood at the corner
Of the bar and seam
Where people walk
And sit down together.
The room smelled
Of stains and old money,
Red wine and oyster
Cracked open,

I watched the boy
Approach my 28th year
And flash arrogant smile.

You’ve never been in this place
Before, he said.
You have a name
You can get around on?

What is wrong with your eye?I asked.

And your hat tips
Over the other lid.
You have a problem
With women,

I think.

I have mother trouble
Here. He said. Reaching
Into his pocket,
He pulled out a note pad
Signed his name on it
And handed it to me.

Ever take an autograph
From someone not old enough
To have a name?

It feels like paper
But something different,
Like pennies in a water glass.

I took it.
It wasn’t the man I needed,

But I took it.