Lunch with William Killingsworth

Homeless in New York

2:10 was late but

He waited, knowing

I’d said ‘If I don’t show,

Consider me dead’.

 

In a bistro we

Drank wine next tabled

To secure couples,

Tangible assets

Hanging from cool ears

He misfortunes told,

His grandness thinned to

A grey T with black

Cotton rough-rimmed to

His dry throat and wrists.

Fading from his eyes

Down; stolen, buried

And forgotten, left

Drop bruise scratched, kicked up

By a fox or wolf .

I finished quickly,

He sipped his slowly,

Kept it real, fitting

Calm along lines of

A life that is thin ruled.

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