Salvation's soup
ladled out
in icy kitchens
dead words are spewed
through yellow teeth
and trembling fingers
beat lost tattoos
on subway wall
night has no end
the throat of the city
opens
spilling broken forms
from flophouse doors
to meet the sun
and tomorrow's nameless corpse
faces the morning
without
tears
his crusted eyes
watch
the girls go by
a drool perches
on his faded lip
and falls
his heart stays cold
I guess I've lost it
he says.
(Mike O'Brien)