Across The Street, On A Stool, On Christmas Eve In New Brunswick. Poem by James Faughner

he has been knocking for some time
he is cold and starving
he is in love, mad with anger
riddled with guilt
he is average
he is ugly
he is listening
he is shrugging off
he is defecating
defaced,
oh so mortal
for he
is you.

he weeps...
on the grave hue,
stone slab of mortality
with its sailors warning stain
that we will all know
away he will snatch you
away with loneliness and despair
in a liquid colored with need
dark corners and shadows
that move from grey room to grey room
in the mind
there is but one tiny man
waiting at the door
we will never answer
the demons in his pocket
are never ceasing
ever increasing
and boy...they are out
for blood.