Alan Sincic

I want the old men to get out of my way. They want to carry the ears of all the young men in their suit pockets, they've trained the young men to a circle of timid questions, the young men pretend ignorance in deference to them.

I want the old men to get out of my way. In a caucus the old men act like your address is in their wallet and the hairs of your head have an actual number. They do not talk to the moment. They like to think the weather has taught them something, so they stare your voice away and pretend to wait for their falcon eyes to return to them from a long way off. The bones of their face prop them into wise expressions. They traveled hard but they bought new shoes and now their feet have a look that is too permanent.

I want the old men to get out of my way. I have no reputation to applaud me: I interrupt the old men where they wade in congregation through their own ankles and block the sidewalk up.

The sun still runs through my arms and legs, old man, and speed does not confuse me. I was rage inside some mother's body the moment of your youth, when women climbed your ribs, but now your clothes have grown tall and I am at your shoulder. Get out of my way.