A weathered man sits on his ankles.
One good eye looks sideways
at traffic upstream, the other is
clouded over with cataract.
The cigarette is a fragment, a remnant
plucked-up from concrete, saved
from trampling feet. Under
a dripping awning he waits
for the 20: filled with character, unreliable;
an accordion ark that rolls down the safe,
but damp Drive to Hastings. Above
the crows return unburdened.
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