Cans Poem by John Allen

melted snow crawls at a snails
pace down his threadless, stinking

brown work boots
unwittingly imitating his

brain waves. zigzagging through
the senseless rubber maze

of a sleeping heel and reaching
his own dead end on loose floorboards,

it adds a new continent
to the puddle made from tears and

other things that have formed like a
moist waste land over three years.

occasionally he is sure that the
shrill voiced neighbor downstairs

who complains loudly about the
noise is his daughter. who else,

after all, could care enough to
wake him up. never having the energy

to go and find out, he will forget.
this will not matter, since she is 85

and was put in a nursing home
last night, no relation.

none of thie may ever matter,
since downtown his dreams

are on sale for 50 cents a can.