Man With a Pot

The surprise of bread
falling like Niagara Falls shakes
him from a quick doze, must
be mostly pocket remains
thinks Mr. Homeless
listening to the clinking of coin
clattering into his pail, the
one he scoffed
from Ronnie the other night, more
like a trade costing him
two stiffs of wine, finishing off the
remains before word got
out snorts were hanging around
the alleyway, and Ronnie
first in line for more.

Under the shelter of a drippy sky,
legs stretch, hat soggy
Mr. Homeless whistling a tune,
hoping passers-by enjoy the
beat. Maybe this time instead
of coins, he’ll hear the whisper of
paper smoking their way to
the bottom of his plans.

© Richard L. Provencher