The Tire Yard Poem by Paul Julian

Excommunicato,
Mr. Man he sit up
on a broken pallet
in the tire yard,
look at he hands;
turn them slowly with a puzzlement
like these ain't his...
shake he head and
wipe he nose down he sleeve
as the morning traffic
whirls around his bedroom.
He cough and grin
at a young lady
in a BMW
who isn't really looking at him
or the data sheets
spread out next to her
on the shotgun seat
of her sleek, efficient machine,
as she runs numbers and
lost yesterdays
through her fine mind
in an unsuccessful
yet never ending attempt
at integrating a sense of
movement and meaning
into the absolute percision of
her anxiously controlled now.

Mr. Man he get up
as she pass him,
rub he grubby hands across he eyes,
peekin' out throught the finger spaces,
just a laughin' and a jivin'
about the pretty lady
and the kaleidoscope of visions
she brings him,
on what might have been,
for someone else,
a wasted Monday morning.