It’s in the Eyes

city streets

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.

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