Insane winos zigzag the city sidewalks collecting cans and bottles,
their ancient Buddha faces resigned to this morning ritual.
Where squirrels are fat from breadcrumbs scattered about
a pigeon suffers the fate of an alka-seltzer tablet hidden in bread.
The other evening I walked through littered Tompkins Square,
putrid fumes of body odor offending my senses at railside.
China man explores trashcans, licking rims of empty beer cans,
then packs them with the rest in trash bags on his shopping cart.
At the East River promenade he’ll seek refuge in public bathrooms,
a weekly shower with a dirty rag wetted in a cold water sink.
Outside squats a toothless women in the grass and afraid of dark,
with one hand on her grocery cart for balance.
Outside the river swirls a wind up and across to fan the barrel’s flames,
where homeless huddle under bridge eating what’s left of their humble pie.
Great invisibility overcomes their urban lives and all near their paths,
until death finally finds them and the city wagon carts their specters away.
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