Left Overs

I took the day-old bread – they wanted
to toss it out with the orange peels

and wet coffee grinds. (Compost is a foreign
world with a ghost texture and

a muddy leaf-licking reputation.) Maybe I’ll
give the rolls to the person sleeping

in an inlet of the brick wall next to the
Chinese grocery. I think the person

changes, sometimes a woman, always
a bundle on the foam pad, a plastic tarp. There

must be a network of bedless who
pass the corner facts to wavering newcomers,

they wrap up in dough and await tomorrow.
I’ve never slept on the street – hammocks or

tents or the floor, but always far from exhaust
and sidewalk sludge. I live in worlds of

unpronounceable cleaning products and couplets
with curving line breaks. I’ve slept on airplanes

and boats, in a full bath of paper scraps,
my belly full of focaccia, pita, marble rye.



Street art. By Daniel john buchanan. Creative Commons License.




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