Open precioushanded quarter monger–
Sidewalked and wastelanded,
Marseyed and bottle happy,
Under which bridge will sleep befall thee tonight?
To life, passed out, beneath the scraping sky–
Alcoholing a listlessed litany
to any passerby
Who may overstep your comatose form:
Sprawled, babylike, across the broad expanse
Of concrete day.
Are you hunting grounds of happy years
When the sun shone a hawkshadow–
Frisking like cloud laughter
In butterfly Spring?
Or do you snore in blind forget
More bitter than regret?
And which the winewash only thinly glazes.
I shoe my concerns in distance,
where walks my soul with yours:
Pinballing across four lanes
of honking cars–
Endreaching the stupor goal
that mirages just beyond
this sad, sad story of ours.