The life is in the blood.
It pulses there in the eyes–
soul windows clouded but alive–
deep-black, watery pools,
red-rimmed distant orbs.
Back alley homes, newspaper blankets,
city heat vents, street’s grating.
Wearing everything he owns
on his decaying body.
Shopping cart collection of
what-knot necessities, and
what’s in the brown paper bag in his hand?
Park benches make handy beds
if no-one runs him off.
“Can you spare a buck, lady?”
Don’t meet those red-rimmed orbs
pulsing with life.
Fear may drown you
in their watery depths,
or carry you along to back-alley homes.
