ONE DAY IN THE SAME VICINITY
by Robert Gibbons
 

I

December second chill causing one face to stand out from the rest in the line for the bus on Huntington Avenue. Sure, everyone wants to get a seat, all want to beat the imminent rush hour, but for this guy, last in line, an entire felt blanket folded & draped around his neck, dread in his eyes, night's the real concern. The sun that's left, sharp angle out of the northwest, is still of value. No more sunsets from this vantage in the city anymore. It's light, then not. Survivable day, night's threat. Suddenly the image of the fetish sled hauling folded felt & fat props itself up between him & me, & I realize the whole of Beuys's marrow bone of art. Though this guy wouldn't get it, he's closer to it.

II

The little square's deserted as the temperature turns cold, & wind ignores Canada's borders. He's not there now, but in warmer weather I'd catch Dakar sitting on the bench, exactly as he was as magistrate in Ghana, formerly The Gold Coast. I asked him once to tell me his most notorious cases. Seems a minister siphoned off parishioner funds. Brought in by members of his church, Dakar chastised him sharply, gave him probation, & a chance to pay it back, in installments. On the other hand, a woman was found with stolen jugs of beer hidden in the rafters of her house. Pregnant, she couldn't have done it by herself, but wouldn't reveal who else helped. She spent a year in jail, for which the judge claimed no regrets. Slowly, though, I sensed a deep discomfort, covered by calm demeanor, finally reaching bone-chilling, sinewy, ill at ease.