supine on the curb
a heap of ragged sheets
one limp body,
a brace of rotting teeth, squatting
junk on the jungle floor, shivering -
abandoned eyes, slowly wandering the suffocating canopy of balconies
and thin, neglected topiaries
drifting past drying lines
wearily sifting through dreary, tapered vines
and little broken barbecues
high in the branches
evening’s rays make mazes
monkeys gorge on twilight,
giggling at the vagrant’s
vacant gazes -
they know nothing of roots;
of rain-ravaged boots
and crumbling chip shops
on battered street corners
taking last orders from rats
as the shutters roll down
a creature who endlessly dwells
where the air smells of roses
rarely supposes that skies can seem bleaker
for those whose lodgings are meeker
what’s to gain from imbibing their pain?
the trees are still standing
their fruits are still sanguine and sweet
the rot will never reach the rooftop bars
the leafy landings, spread out under the stars
far below, the beggar hangs his head
waiting out the days until he’s dead