wiping my ass

It’s Sunday evening here at a hostel off Melrose and Vermont.

I had some dime. It was time to get off the street.

I’m not going to let Kobrin the She-knave win.

It’s 9:30. I want to eat.

Some black twenty somethings from Atlanta are fussing it up in the dining room.

No one is wearing masks in the kitchen.

As I put a pan on the stove, a young man comes up to me from out of nowhere and says to me smiling a mad and incandescent smile

“You’re a shaman!”

His eyes are wild with spirit.

I wonder if he will ever come down and what will happen to him when he does.

His words were so quick and direct that I think, “Is this a message from God?”

“I may be” I reply. “But I still have to wipe my ass like every body else”