Winter’s wicked claws tear across my
face; they draw no blood, but shred my skin
until I fall awake
inside a doorway, in a city,
under blankets torn and old
I am choked by dirt and worms
but still protected from the cold.
When the freezing rain is falling, I
am certain I have earned my discontent,
just as I deserve this green oakpark bench as my bed
I could use some conversation;
I could use a warmer heart.
But I sleep with ghosts and needles
in this dead, abandoned park,
mumbling between my failing breathes:
“Excuse me, mister,
can you spare some change?
This city is cold
and these shoes have holes.”
I caught you in an eye-to-eye
and still you kept on walking bye,
naked but your three-piece suit
and a tie around your neck just like a noose.