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