On Crosby Street

I see a cab pull into a spot in front of a hydrant. I see the passenger door swing open, I see two bony brown hands poke out the bottom of the opening, both fisting upheld liter-sized Poland spring bottles brimming with foggy yellow liquid, I see wrists twist to pour the liquid into the gutter, I smell french fries dipped in a bright if caustic fish sauce, the infection has surely traveled to the kidney, I want to tell him, but he’s shut the door and is pulling out, his reek is now just mine to withstand. He’s passed on his present. I think I should have been a pathologist, I think there should be public toilets, there should be driver’s seats that double as commodes, the urethra is primitive, insufficient. Mine is so narrow, I’d be dead without soap or antibiotics. He’ll be dead in a few days without the big boys: bactrim, preferably an I.V. I run behind the cab, waving violently. He stops, where do I want to go? Oh, you probably wouldn’t take me because it’s ass-out in brooklyn, even though by law you should, mother fucker, anyway I have a car parked down the block but you, sir, you should have that urine analyzed, powerful stuff, too much going on in there, I’ve been there, not judging, just sayin. Fuck you, bitch and he’s off.

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