The Old Man Recycled

heavy the drops


running down his face

the old man

skirts with expert pretence

around the downpour

of traffic

people reign

Holds on to his trolley

as if it was his

very own head

full of life’s spoils of fizz

in metal and glass

thrown aways


ten cents to his bank

see his gnarled hands


around his daily dig

of the cities garbage of tips

trugalug trugalug 
rattle and roll

Its raining cats and dogs

and the days near been to its end

and the old man


in printed blooms

of skirt with pleats

steel cap boots

peekaboo muscled doorknob ankles

with poppy red and purple

legs of stockinged veins

Knows he’s got to get out of the rain

His face a scar of stories

line this pickled faced

where the growth of hairs

have a mind of their own

growing like a veranda

these well sprouted brows

shelter his two dark wells of eyes

and trugalug trugalug 
rattle and roll

as the storm clouds blanket

a dark snarl of night

it is hard to see

this old man without light

for his skin and his clothes

like an extinct animal knows

how to camouflage

even in prose

but for the rain

that could wash his name on the street

He trugalug trugalugs 
and rattle and rolls

and as quick as a bug


beneath the nights rug




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