What monkey with heart and soul are you
that knocks at my door with meaty hands?
Who sells gazes like the gazes you sell
to the street-sailors who pass – who see
you in white?

All Standards for future existence aside,
what muck does digest in thy withering gut?
Do you knock to take me with you
and show me time as time does go
or knock to wake my eyes and draw
a warmth upon my face, not there?
What message do you bring for me?
What line?

For all the questions I could ask
you offer only looks – two desperate eyes
alive in mounds of ruined, wrinkled meat.
No more, the idea of old time-soldier
on excursions through the suns of past.
No more the jester of city park dumpsters.
Only the shame awake on your palm
does speak to sing it’s shameful song.
You sing the song that beggars sing
of stomachs churning broth.
But I’m like you, I say
for looks, I too design.

And just like you, my eyes are worn.
And just like you I’m hungry.

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