WRITING: November Nights

The wind is the voice of the night he listens to;

and not the clinking half-ass copper tossed his way by day.

Though once a pair of sharkskin grey legs gave an Andrew Jackson

and shrugged as gusty New York streets blew it away.

Whirlpool brands their name on double thick corrugated homes

that sideways sleep the weary bleary-eyed,

only the best, only the rest, only the blessed man would know.

Huddle of clothes on crowded streets, mazes that amaze

and yet ignored, as if by scent alone the others find their way

around and never into him

That’s why he listens only to the night.

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