Franky Fringe
By Ken Siegelman, Brooklyn Poet Laureate

In his family
He was likened to that second car
Used just to make those local stops
At the grocery or bar;
A flat based grey with liver spots
Rusting well outside the range of thieves of vandals
Who winced and looked the other way
As if its own pathetic poverty
Cloaked it in invisibility
While parked or moving hesitantly
In plain sight of everyone
I would guess he stuttered
Even as a child
Sometimes more
Often less well after those who taunted him
Died or moved on
To greater levels of cruelty…
He waits under the awning
Of a newsstand on the avenue;
Braced as if a bone chill winter rain
Is always falling
Cascading into icy puddles
Inches from the dry spot
Where he holds a steamy coffee
Waiting for the newstruck man
Who always take the time to smile…
He says he loves to go out dancing
In places where the lights are dim
And everyone transforms into shadows of imagination.
It’s a place where no one talks too much
And awkward body moves
Masquerade as innovative steps;
Timing his arrival as he does
When the open bar has blurred our vision
And slurred our speech enough
To make him feel like one of us.