Longboarding in Fairmount.
He surfed the sidewalk
on wheels that mumbled
over asphalt imperfections,
past poor houses
with shades drawn
to hide the nicotine-stained wallpaper
and beige ovens
and plaid-clad couches,
past rich houses
with nude windows
baring bookshelves, darkly stained
with leather-bound unread editions,
dusted and polished by a woman who knows
few English words,
and a plasma TV that is larger than his home's
garage door, but
he does not take note nor look too long
for fear he'll raise suspicion
in his hoodie and his sagging jeans,
and a lone piece of gravel grabs his wheel.
His board stops,
he flies forward,
arms like a dying ibis,
bare hands and nipples and knees and his wiry-whiskered chin
hit pavement and taste the gritty grind of road rash,
but the rich woman sipping her vodka
decides not to call 911
when he steps back on his board,
rockets red spittle into her begonias,
and surfs onward.
