After the pops we watched,
from the window. Rabid
or not, the raccoon flailed
like ribbons on a demo fan,
life pushed out like pulled air
in the driveway. Two more
from the cop to secure an end,
a spectacle, a gathering.
Five cracks in the driveway
to bring the neighbors out
for a killing. The mowers wind down.
We watched in awe the last
few pulses of agony
slow run to the gutter
where the last leaves
unraked on an afternoon,
mingled with road grit
and hunks of can,
were soon washed down
by the firemen
and their hoses.

I told Luke about it by the iced cream.

I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...

What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?

Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?

Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....

As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....

An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...

A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.

~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014