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An Object of Pity

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He threw it all away.
He tries to draw his breath from fresh air.
The world passes by in a long-winded fray
of asphalt and time.

Down highways and by-ways, where-do-we-
go-ways, narrow-and wide-roads, through
deserts and valleys, he's gathered his gold
for our pleasure.

The false friends, those feet. those water-
logged books.
That cup of coffee like mud.
That jackknife sticking out of his heart.
Slack-shouldered in black and blue doom.
It's his own fault I know, his mouth filled
with oatmeal and tangerines.

An object of pity from his birth to his death.
At his birth we may pity his mother and father,
and hell with him who died.

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