Inspired by Paul Quarrington and Alistair MacLeod;
Dark lined etchings of harshness,
with a coloured wash of compassion.
King Leary and No Great Mischief
Tried my best; might be over written – better than underwritten.
Stinky shadow of his former self
Leaves a dark abstract impression
On the sidewalk,
Who knows what,
Or what not else.
Trying to hold his twisted body together
Steady enough to hold the Tim’s coffee cup
Out far enough for potential passer-by
Sharp canyons; some lined up,
Some seemingly random,
Topography of a face
Informed by stormy brain,
Not a fog -
A ragging hurricane;
Rain, wind, thunder, lightning,
Distorting his face to the world.
He stands naked in his head,
A sailor without stars.
He hunches down with his back against the warm bank wall,
His shaky legs need a rest,
Is it Pay Day? Is it Christmas or some other holiday?
Only knows the metallic taste in his mouth from the hunger and the cold.
Pile of silver and brass building up
In his cup,
There is generosity in the air.
Plain mukluk boots, long puff coat, long undressed hair,
A woman stands in front of him
Fishing in her carry bags,
Finally a small change purse,
Two brass looneys from that,
Tossed into the change pile,
Delicate scales tip,
Unsteady stinky former shadow of himself
Teeters toward the sidewalk,
Cup is released to relativity,
Gravity takes over,
Silver and gold rainbow arches from the paper vault,
Metal tinkling on the sidewalk
Rain on a metal roof,
He wets his pants.