He slinks out
of the dark beyond
the revolving door
and makes for me

by the shortest line
across the great hall
of the station. His pants
had fit once without

a cinch, or they
are someone else's,
someone who can
cross a room

with nothing more
in mind than
a comfortable
chair. He knows

the way to plead,
set up the promise
to pay me back
as soon as he

can get at the cash . . .
I think he thinks
I believe him. I
believe I know

what we mean
when we talk
about the crow's
flight, as he takes

what's in my
hand and leaves
me, a bone he
cannot swallow.