Cold Street, Morning


He gave a look to a passing old man that said "Don’t even look at Me you old, sick Fuck!" and he carried on down the alleys,

He searched, like a bat searches for its next meal, for his next shot, hit, taste and he felt his loneliness,

"At least I don’t look that bad" thread bare tweed jacket and torn dungarees, shiny shoes with holes, sunken eyes in yellow skin, greasy hair, unshaven face, when naked clearly visible rib cage, just like his loves, he was right,

Sweat and tears stung his eyes, and cries like vinegar in a wound as his salvation approached, H- Messiah, tall, thin, muscular,

Fourteen dollars and a wedding ring, his last memories, the cost of forgetting to breathe.