Of expired cream    
 at the bottom of a cardboard pot    
 he made his meal    
 like a hesitant fly    
 on the windowsill.        
  
 The wooden bench was dirty    
 a newspaper will do    
 to ask    
 in his grime-hardened mantle    
 under a light rain.        
  
 Then get up staggering    
 for along the sidewalk    
 wobble a few steps    
 towards the alley of straight trees    
 with serrated leaves.        
  
 there are days     
 where the thick cloud    
 hesitates to break through in the face of misery    
 where we were pushed    
 in the alley of the dead.        
  
 Baggage, point    
 a good raincoat, point    
 closed shoes, point    
 woolen gloves, point    
 a hint of a smile, point.        
  
 Hirsute, disheveled hair    
 he went from street to street    
 sit at the foot of a building    
 between two canine shits    
 clutching her black shopping bag.        
  
 On the piece of paper he had to see a doctor    
 but he forgot    
 and the social worker    
 ditto
 a large gray cat quietly passed by.        
  
 In the setting sun    
 had to find the place    
 to slouch maybe lie down    
 in the constant noise of traffic    
 which would diminish.        
  
 He knew the area    
 since the time he wandered    
 the man of our time    
 within sight    
 that we could offer him.        
  
 He had a viaticum    
 a stuffed animal with gnawed ears    
 by the dog that had accompanied him    
 some hot weather    
 and polar cold, successively.        
  
  
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