The Taken Job

A dormant man
candled by wind
and age sits atop
a dirty, red and
sullen table, his
grimace glancing
forward and back,
more than once
reaching for me.

He smiles with
the gaping mouth
of a cartoon
character, bright,
and I notice
amongst his sweat-
pants's stains those shoes—
a new Nike pair
snuggly attached
to his ankles.

And the new black
poncho adorning
his hands is like
a growing series
of puddles on
an empty street
in North Philly
(or the golden
ornament of
a limousine
passenger,
(or the tallest
Christmas tree’s
decorously
alive branches)
is made of cheap
plastic, a trash bag
unpunctured,
unfilled with filth
or wear from the
automobile
exhaust forms.

Outside silvering
slices of rain
impale the streets
with deadening
cries, loud rushes,
booming barks,
yawning noise.

Tonight my eyes
find the police
more present
than ever before,
and I imagine
that dormant man
lost or trapped
somewhere nearby;
with a great
difficulty
he breathes in
along each sleeping
block of soaked
and gray concrete,
the material on
his shoes wearing
thin with each step.
He is uncertain—
more than I, he was
kind, more than I.