today at dinner time
by
Janet Cannon
his bent body leans into the wire
mesh trash can with open sore
hands and patches of pus oozing
periodically his head surfaces
like a halloween party grab bag
player costumed as homeless
authentically safety pinned
to his threadbare jacket a torn
sleeve hangs on his tilted torso
soiled pants suspendered
precariously above swollen feet
he swigs from an I love new
york styrofoam cup spitting
out curdled milk bits and flicks
ants off an aging avocado then
he swallows a hunk of hot dog
roll in one gulp he limps off
with dignity without a home