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this old man (edit) (Free verse) by Bill Z Bub
Grimey, like a shuffle in the downtown sludge, open bardoors breathing
the stink of liquor and piss
and old men, their pockmarked skin flaking hopeless desire.
this old man,
throws down the brown paper bag
filled with smashed sterile bones of glass,
and rubs his hands,
his empty hands.
points prideful gnarled knuckles at the line-walkers
snatches the black woolen cap
from his lap.
he won't move til he's ready,
grown from concrete and asphalt,
prickly and dried,
weathered in a barrel