Broken

He is a rain soaked alleyway,
Gutters choked with carnival cone wrappers,
Brown bottles smashed in doorways,
Bitter, fermented grapes
Left long on the vine for flies
To perch and rub their hairy legs.

He is an old tomato can
Growing out of the gravel alley,
Blooming rust spots in April;
Or sundown in winter
When the weathervane squeals southward
And the trees click their spider-bones.

He is dirt caked jeans
Worn long and thin,
Torn at the knees and the seams;
Warm, sizzling Coors down your throat,
A ripe green pepper, no salt,
A Carlton dragged deep into the soul.

He is a slurred word,
A pouting lip dripping blood,
A zoo lion,
The smoke curling
Past the red candles
In a dark bar.

He is an artist
With arthritic hands
Sleeping through cataract dreams;
A birthday present never bought,
A silent telephone where no one waits,
A check in the mail.

He is white fury burning holes
In dirt-gray bed sheets,
Fear wrapped in a brown paper bag,
A cold rain burst
Beating metal thunder
On the roof of a dead car.