Outside the edges
Of a little town called
Something that weighted alot
I met a man
Called Nigel Hardus
He was up from
Or Geno
Or something
That was oh
And I was
down from the city
With the name that said
Nothing about itself
We talked
For a while
But I ignored him
for a while
instead staring at a man
in a shiny car
shouting into a cellphone
an out of towner (like me)
but i have privilige
Sitting with my bun
and my tourist

I feel 'native'

And he presses on with his conversation
'All right, what's occuring?'
And I remember
Nigel Hradus
My six foot man
Of african descent
Is welsh.

I have nothing against the welsh,
I tell myself,
hoping I'll learn
Rarebit. Rugby.
Dragons on the flag.
Much to love.
Or to scorn.
(Hardly different)
We talk for
minutes that seem like
hours that seem like
minutes that seem like
bread that seems like
the gaps that cross
breathing and speaking
He tells me how he
the city
because he feels excluded
I tell him I feel
about most places
"that way".
He looks at me suspiciously

And I ignore him again.

The End

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