I know
the wino
who lives on your block.
He doesn’t speak
and doesn’t walk
very well.
He lives in Hell,
though technically
he’s homeless,
no address,
lives rent free
between the
Dumpster and the
deli,
till winter comes,
numbs his toes.
Then I don’t know
where he goes.
The wino
I know
has noplace else to go.
Let’s hope that he goes to Florida and sits between the surf and a sand dune.
As I recall, that was Ratso Rizzo’s plan in Midnight Cowboy…
oh yeah. That ended well, as I recall.