Ruddy-faced, the ragged wanderer wraps his
coffee cup and his smoke in one hand.
His other hand he keeps in the
pocket of his third-hand Mets jacket.
Whether he’s grasping something within
or he's just trying to keep it warm
is a mystery. Chances are 4-to-1
no cash shares those five fingers' holey berth.
Joyous, head high, the urban drifter
throws smiles like sunbeams right into the
faces of these straight-life, shivering souls
with whom he coasts starkly bright morning streets.
Their eyes are up, too, but they focus
past the no one, the nothing, that drifts near them,
seeing instead only the faces in the
steamed-up coffee-shop window.
That’s the one framing the same
familiar frowning reflections as yesterday.