King of the Fire Hydrant

By day he pretends To be a janitor Spending his time Sitting on the corner hydrant Enjoying nature's comforts Fresh air And the Sun Watching and Seeing everything. The locals come to him for advice Or to converse In the privacy of the Cement square Allocated to a corner. If a stranger asks questions He shakes his head Signifying he knows nothing Just sitting there A Gypsy Feeling life's rhythm Pass like a gentle upward breeze As mothers and children Rush by Old men walk slowly Women carry groceries Delivery men stop And nod his way. Newspaper folded under An iron throne His face curls up in an evil yawn When the street entertainment bores him Other times he carefully peels a fruit and eats it slowly Enjoying all its juices Secretly relishing his role As a troubadour In an indifferent city. He knows the comings and goings Of all the tenants Mostly young and naïve Paying outrageous rents For closet size apartments And he treats them According to his mood For he is the King of the Fire Hydrant.