I think his name was Sam.
There was poetry behind his face,
Wrinkled and world weary
brown and drawn
deep and porous
battle damaged
from fights and loves
from losses,

now blind.
Half a homeless heart
still hoping to be reunited
with the other part.

With his last bucks,
He buys his lover
A shiny trinket.
Taps the sidewalk
with a thin white stick,
hungry
but holding on to
the precious gift.
which he will give
his Italian lover
when they meet again.

In dreams he sees,
not blind but two young studs
still so much in love
with a full future ahead.

Cold concrete and pillow
for his head
one blanket
and hope, a fruit dangling,
just barely on this side of death.
He is alive
and still in love