There is a character, one who looks no more than a shadow
when you walk past him on nervous nights through asphalt alleyways.
He is with you when you love your wife, when you nuke your dinner,
while you wash your unmentionables.
He knows your mother's maiden name, the tag you gave the family pet,
your social security number, and your last bank balance.
He is in your telephone line, in your electrical wires.
He is on the street. He is in your home.
He knows the answers to your questions about local weirdos.
The old lady who carries all those bags wherever she goes:
he knows there's a dead raccoon and a pair of Stacy Adams
in there along with Jim Hoffa's wallet.
The husk of a missing man who won't look you straight in the face
when you stroll right by him on sugar-and-shit-sticky sidewalks;
he knows the secrets those eyes hold.
He knows the secrets your eyes hold.
He knows why you can't sleep at night.
He knows why you don't call your dad
as often as he thinks you should.
He is Felix, King of City Streets.
He knows where the bodies are buried.
He knows who those corpses were.
He knows why the skeletons rot.