Basura

Suppose this broken bodied man
once dreamt in avalanches of colour,
and behind his cracked lips
resided a dagger;

now wordlessly winding through
sunbaked streets with
hunchbacked stagger,

he spat at seagulls between
toothless sniggers.

Suppose a half smoked cigarette
now meant more than any sunset’s
fickle promise of tomorrow,
that the sound of surf brought
qualms of homesickness
away from these brazen bays,
and crooked sticks, driftwood,
the nautical nothings
the tide rejected upon the sand.

Here, couples fondle outside nightclubs
gather on benches, nauseated
by the bastard moon
or the stench of a passer by;

suppose he doesn’t exist
and isn’t longing for love.

He isn’t.

He’s longing for some leftover
chips or some kind of
liquor so he can collapse
upon a doorstep
-perhaps-
and regurgitate the saltwatered
taste of Monday.