heavy the drops
rain
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
recycled
ten cents to his bank
see his gnarled hands
curled
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
dressed
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
disappears
beneath the nights rug
recycled
In The Hive 