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.
Being Every Day 