He comes bearing gifts,
peace offerings and coffers
full of symbolism of little value.
His robes, are a tattered hoodie
and torn denim jeans,
coffee stained and remains of color
where splashes of bleach had landed.
A backpack slung, not well hung
and perched precariously carrying
various swatches of torn pages
and different stages of half chewed Wrigley’s
wrapped in the business end of a soiled tissue.
But it is you that he seeks, speaking your name
in mumbled tones. Written in unpublished
tomes and journals, kernals of truth
and little else. The rabble travel in packs
and stacks of wooden pallets stagger
through these darkened alleys of despair.
But what do they care? Weathered
and nailed to the crosswalk; talk of their
demise is greatly exaggerated. Following closely
as a car rises in the East; a feast for tired eyes.
His legs will carry him just so far, and it mars
any taint of reputation. Concerning his situation:
The stuff in the gold foil needed refrigeration.
It’s merely spoiled and exudes the foul smell.
And why the hell is Frank incensed anyway?
His hovel isn’t much, but it’s home
I suppose. Don’t mind his clothes.
I offer my spare change; He’ll take the bus.