Morning Glory
Nonchalantly resting in one hand,
A quarter and two dimes.
The other in full demand—
A warm breakfast in no time.
Soft music aims to woo,
Newspaper at a perfect angle,
A bite mark or two,
Deforms the once impeccable bagel.
Delicately dabbing his lips,
Trades the paper for the phone.
Beaming, takes another sip,
Connected, he’s never alone.
With a grin, pauses to admire
His suit—crumb and wrinkle free.
Without hesitation or tire,
Uses the window to preen.
Preening, he does not see,
The litter overwhelming the street.
Preoccupied, he does not feel,
The wind ravaging the trees.
Looks at the window,
Without looking out,
Everything down below,
Taints his route.
Struggling to light a cigarette,
On the outside looking in.
The only meal he could get,
Homelessness his sin.
A history wrinkled on his face,
Sputtered gray in his hair,
Forgotten by the human race,
Not worthy of a prayer.
