September 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
I start to close the window, my hands blistered from long hours
Of cutting up garage sale signs with dull pinking shears,
When in my peripheral vision I see him tread the street, amorphous,
A myth, a scrawny vapor, subtly chewing on ephemera.
Entranced, I recall rumors, how he mostly lives on pepper
And on dirty baking soda, and he never sleeps at night…
He’s feeding nails and pebbles to a vending machine coin slot;
Turns the handle, sets in motion sluggish rolling, churning, creaking.
His selection, butter globules, drops atop the scraggly remnants
Jutting from the opening at the bottom of the machine.
He catches grimy tidbits in a plastic salad spinner,
Stares a moment, disappointed. (I bet he wanted cupcakes.
Same thing happened to me lately…)
Stirs his solitary potluck with an empty paper towel tube,
Then dissipates, wafts sideways, like smoke from burning driftwood.