Whose

All these loose pieces

Notations of what, weathered

Somehow fitting as one

Suddenly blown to the wind

River and Osborne SW

What happened?

You used to be so great

And then you committed a dereliction of duty

The first place to eat in the village

An icon at the gates

Plates of good Italian food

And fantastic pizzas

And cold beers from all over the earth

And open until 4:00 AM

A beaconed neon light

But then what

A spiral to depths

A bad spot so no repair here

A customer sees dereliction and does not return

So further decline

We invested in you

You did not invest in yourself

So we divested of you

And we wait

Knowing this, this is the corner

The gateway to the village

And we fret as the building decays, empty

And we hope for unique

And satisfying

Demanding evidence rumors of chains are all false

Cause this is our home

And we will support you

So long as you are part of the fabric

Or we will sink you.

We are fickle that way.

Self Reflection with Frosted Face

I am prone to robbery

So one part of this wit likes to think

No I have never participated in the felonious arts

But I am prone to it.

I cannot pass a bank without consideration

Of vaults, and cash drawers, and frightened customers

I think thoughts of a robbing hood

When I pass the cash stores, creators of victims

Fellow thieves who have legally participated in that I fear to try

And when I pass near a Seven-Eleven

Well

I fair itch

So here I sit in this bakery

Eating my baklava while wearing my balaclava

Staring past the facsimile idols of Greek gods

Past beyond the frosty panes to across the street

Planning a perfect crime

And I spring to action

Pulling down my balaclava

Zipping my parka

And taking the last of my baklava

I march with the confidence of the driven

Through the doors...

A cheery greeting in an Abu accent

"Welcome dear sir"

To the counter

"Dear sir, if I may

You have baklava on your balaclava"

Stupefied,

Mortified, I fled

Running into the frigid night

Breath weighing heavily upon my mask

Layers of hoar upon hoar

And stop 
To stare at the shop front reflection of this fool

A frosted flake of a man

Not a robber

A lover

Of backlava

River and Osborne SE

Rafe’s coffee is exceptional

He serves it hot and fresh

Every single day of the year

On those that are lonely

The holidays for the uninvited

I can always find friendship here.

These customers are predictable

Not the chic from across the way

The seniors come and run the sofa and chairs

Inviting us in to learn of their days

And their politics

Students live here

A constant cramming

Free connections and exceptional elixirs

Potions of sleep deprivations

To drive knowledge so they can become chic

Free newspapers contrast the self-supplied technologies

And books, bibles and dissertations

With a sprinkle of opinion and disagreement

Music joins, a familiar tune breaking through the atmosphere

Near the dish washer people dance

Not to tunes

But to nature as they wait their turn

For the key on the big stick

And all stop for a moment

As new come through the door

Push in, an opposite conciliation to street level entries

Do we know him or her

No matter

At Rafe’s place they are all friends

And the cheerful baristas welcome

In a warm embrace of coffee

And Gunn’s pastries

And the best of company

River and Osborne NE

Rockefeller stood proud here at one time

The phonetic extraction of his once proud company

Dispensing fuel and repairs

Fallen to disrepair and abandon

To rise again

A theatre of the community

Banded together

Fierce fighters of independence

Slaying the giant tigers of business

Who would dare commercialize this concrete commons

Protected by, reinforced

With a transient community of the theatre

Drawn here as the prairie winter turns warm

These unwashed children come

From every direction and every place

To loiter and celebrate a hobo life

Simple bags and bedding

Instruments, music, dance, and public lovers

Dreadlocks hair with flakes of skin and city grime

And dogs, a testament of caring

For these kids can barely care for themselves

These children are a link to the culture of this corner

Drawing pictures into the concrete planters

Dispensing stories to all who pass

To any who will listen

Grateful for food or a smoke and for coffee

And for the kitchen in the Church across the way

Mingling with the artists

And the lovers of thespian arts

Dance and comedy and song and festivals

The new Gas arisen from Rockefeller’s ashes

A melting pot of theatrical

A company of the proud

Dispensing fuel for the soul

A friendly repair to a shared and peaceful transience