rattled with the cold.
The old lady tended her shopping cart,
another man choking
the last drops from bottles
against the alley wall.
A butt is a cigar-ette.
Coffee tastes like the tires,
burning in a stack.
The sense is
of being alone,
perhaps an island
in the cardboard sea
under the bridges,
in the alleyways,
the forgotten, no, abandoned,
places to live.
What does the air of despair cost?
It is remote to a normal way of living.
Everyone wants
to belong to the winning tent
today,
what cans and jars can
hold from the search.
Will there be meat as well?
Ragged, jagged figures roam
a winter snow that covers
all in almost a silence.
Some want a surrender.
The can of the thin girl
rattles gaily with the
weight of two coins,
maybe three,
might be four,
her hopes cling to
a tale of ten tears.
The first tear is abandonment,
the second the forgetting
of one's self,
not unlike a blurred amnesia.
The third tear drops
with concern for others,
what might be their path
today. This day
of all others
might be the one, the lucky day,
a dry coat and a cot,
with maybe soup
The fourth tear is of apathy.
Unwillingness.
Six tears are for fate,
as real as the walls
that keep one out,
a separated entity
to fall in disrepair
with future problems,
with a hunger too tight,
too focused
on the moment,
not the breadth of time.
And so it goes,
with the song of sorrow
for yesterdays just imagined.
Tell the stories,
the liquid dramas
that life has to offer.
There will very well be
one answer whose
question lies forgotten
in the dark ash can.
Oh mother, oh father,
where have you gone?
The child is still waiting
for your arrival.
When will you make a difference?
It must be a secret thing
that leads one to happiness.
It can not be found
in the steel grey streets.
Come closer to the fire
child, warm your hands.
Let's see what is in the cup.
It is money for us.
We shall buy sweet
baked beans and, perhaps,
an orange for the thirst,
and coffee for cold bones.
But a touch of the grape
is all that's wanted here.
Jesus is a green bottle
with twist cap.
Reflections in the red wine
are of God,
his love and his wrath.
The tomorrows do not change,
all is locked in a cycle.
To struggle is
to tighten the net.
There is no rescue.
All is quiet
on the dump yard front.
� 1999 David P. McClellan
