His stone shoes tipped askew on the curb’s hush,
The plump of poor men’s cheeks he saw bestow
A blushing crown. Their rasped voices he heard
Litter the streets with disreputable words.
And bottles break without sound of glass,
The stench of memory’s lips mouthing back
A tattered kiss, a perennial bruise;
Old ghosts compelling yet love’s stupor.
Then in the resigned yawn of a moment,
Its cordial pain unharmed by sentiment,
Solemn litanies rose from the sewer’s throng
And hallowed ears indulged a pulsing song.
The sparse table and dusty crib reminisce
No softer lullaby... His dreams grown numb,
Melody orphans him again to sleep:
Familiar bed he punctures like a drum.
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