Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Fetal dreams

The men on third street stuff their ears
With thin paper bar tabs and wax paper bags,
Their loser lovers sleeping in rusted cars
Like markers of bad gambling debts
And through the amber evenings they drink
To health, wealth and happiness,
Cursing the joggers, stoning the limousines
Mocking with crooked elbows the walking lovers

And after midnight, the jig, a cross between
Panhandling and keeping warm
Thinking up lines like actors
As to how to squeeze another coin
From passing pockets

But when the bars close, when each neon light
Winks out, they turn forlorn to the empty
Doorways and byways and rusted cars
Covering themselves with newspaper financial reports

By dawn, they are the sleeping, dull dead bodies
Curled up in their fetal dreams
Knees pressed against their chests
Waiting for life to start again

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