The Rolling Rock Man

				It’s not me shouting at no one
				in Cadillac Square: it’s God
				roaring inside me, afraid
				to be alone.
						—Lawrence Joseph

Never talks, never tips,
drinks two Rolling Rock draughts,
maybe three as he sits for hours
in the restaurant, wears too many clothes
for the weather, his combat jacket,
his navy blue cap, oblivious
to the people eating lunch around him.
Can I get you something to drink? I say,
afraid to say, How about a Rolling Rock,
afraid to be familiar with a man like this.
Somebody already waited on me, he said.
Okay, good, I said.
You lost some weight.
Yeah, I said, a little,
amazed that he is speaking, that
he has noticed a change in me.
I look straight at him, one of his eyes
is blood, a red blotch from a punch—
he said, You look like you have AIDS,
you better go to the hospital,
you’re gonna die soon.
I felt the evil wash over me
as I walked to my next table, stunned
by this backwash of words, this bold
sickness, this butcher world that’s in
and around us, Someone please, pray for us.
Minutes later, he started shouting at no one,
Body bags, he yelled, Body bags.
I heard the words as I watched a five-year-old girl
stare for him, afraid for her. Vietnam, he shouted,
as women three feet away sucked Bloody Marys
and fingered their circle pins—he heard a song
and he spoke the words—I don’t know
what he saw or heard.

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Listen to a reading of the poem.