jamesa7171

It’s 1998 and you're in New York. You sit Buddha-style         Like a beggar’s cup         On a cold Brooklyn sidewalk. The passersby stuff coins in you         Like a karma slot machine;         They measure their generosity         Against your God-bless-you's. Raised, reared, reviled in Texas —         That’s where you'll return to;         Less welcome than a polished         Thief dry-drifting through                   Oil-rich streets. You are a blood-warm stain on the sidewalk;         Bitter as wormwood, pale as pigeon         Shit, dirty like a soiled rubber, pleading         Like an empty coffee