sober poem

on balcony. four church steeples
forgive. two clock towers laugh. the
sun and moon begin to take turns. a
train bell dings from behind. railway
brake releases. hurried
men and women in suits make their
way across the parking lot. feet are
propped up on railing. family eats in
the courtyard of an irish pub
below. child knocks silverware to
the ground, the father scolds. cratered
begins its sweep, peeking with storied
brick and trees. take a deep breath
the exhale.



as I walk to the bars down main st.,
just over the tracks, I see an older
fellow with some heavy wear to his
gait. they are hard, staggered

he has a red bag slung over his
shoulder and he looks at the
pavement as he rambles towards
me. feel like he’s going to
hop the next boxcar outta

I emerge from the mexican joint
thirty minutes later. walk back
up the hill towards the tracks, I
look to my right and there he
is. he hasn’t set a course for
colarada or new mexico. he is
slumped on a park bench, sleeping
with his red bag as a makeshift

my sensitive nature increases in
pace, exhuming this societal
abortion, trying to ponder how
he got here. adrift in interim
slumber with nowhere to go. a
keyring in hand, full of nickel
jangle, I head to my new
apartment. fridge with food.
faucet full of water. two

extra large down pillows. a
mythological heart beating
with a heavy gait and wondering
how this man

ended up.