Saint Autumn Poem by nathan martin

autumns rusty saint does not gather any leaves
but maybe a few brown bottles to recycle.

all he needs is a few more nickels then he can
once again stagger round september with his
bottle full of muddied puddles.

drunken an sullen he hangs around like the
industrial poppies, who's sledder stalks are
messed into a woven chain link fence next
to the mini-mart on barber blvd.

he can see through the window gilgamesh in
the back of the store chain smoking, he wonders
if he will ever be able to quit.

autumns forgotten pilgrim holy in his rainy cathedral
waters all mosaics on street corners as he hides his
secret of a cracked oval sun with gray clouded hands.