Matchbox Cars

Scott Ramsey

About the Author

It's 9:29
on the tenth day
of July and I find old man
Daniels dancing
with pigeons on the patio stoop.
He throws me
a cirnkled twenty, the stench
of blended whisky
and tobacco. "If I win
the jackpot," he says,
"I'll buy a black
Corvette," expecting
this to keep him

sane. The sun is out
and I move across 6th street,
dodging taxis and city
buses, a poor sucker,
pissed off, thinking
what is it aobut all that money,
money, money,
anyway? Old man
Daniels reaches
for his coffee,
two sugars, one cream.
With pleasure,
you old hag, I say

to myself. He sees me smile
and smiles back
with blackened gums.

All day he sits
in his throne on the sidewalk;
by evening he's dreaming
of convertibles.