Mission District
By Zuku
- 847 reads
Oh, gentle gutter slumberer,
You couldn’t get much humbler,
With your blanket of dirt,
Snug as a bug in a rug,
All life’s needs in a trolley
Whose tinny frame spills percussion
by day,
Just as your tinny organs spill toxic amber
by night,
Tender soul of the concrete,
With bristly clouds upon your face,
Nestled in dirt’s embrace,
Lift your cloudy sunken eyes
To the parting sky,
Clear your cloudy sunken thoughts,
And try to recall that thing
You always forget to remember.
Watch skin-hues fuse and blur with booze,
See street men grin though broken-toothed,
Through crack-pipe dreams and fifth-hand shoes,
They just confuse what it hurts to lose.
So sweet man of bags,
Sacred can man,
Can’t you see you can, man?
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