are against the rail
at the subways station,
carving their name
in stench, wine and
urine
against the grave
sidewalk of their
bags and newspaper beds
begging for the last few
drags of smoke,
dangling from someone’s
lips,
or a quarter to spare
for some deodorant.
never paid much
attention to them
while they tipped their
pint bottles of whiskey
bottoms up for a swig,
while I wait
to drop my few quarters
into the next metro
to take me home.
just wonder where,
what had placed them
there against the cold
wind in the first place-
did they have a vendetta
against paying taxes
to uncle sam?
did one become a lawyer
then lose his trust
in the judicial system?
what brought
them here by choice
was it a gun,
a drug,
a marriage
to a bottle,
an invisible God
that drives
the many to insanity?
what made them give up
the ghost of promotion?
was it the devil
slouched in the closet
of their childhood,
or the severe beatings being
served by a strange daddy?
it was my learning
of bukowski
in creative writing
I took in college,
that gave me a different
view of the drunks
at 14th second street,
and the heroes that died
in the whores.
I know there is a brilliant
story somewhere in there,
if only they too knew-
a story that’s burning
with song and triumph,
but revelation
to all of us
that never knew
what it is like to struggle,
that never cared
about the dead bones
on the foot-level sidewalk,
that they brush by
avoiding to touch
with eye contact.
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