He lives on the streets like a body of steam,
cozy on the pipes, pinning the repellent of poverty
on the church stairs.
Sorely leaving his cooped up spot,
he captures a drop of moisture from the high rises.
His church bells ring on the
base of his metal sphere-filled drinking cup.
His tongue speaks like a preacher,
but he burrows like a devil hound,
fearing the righteous acts mellowing
his addictive additions.
“Let me give you my life,”
spitting his teeth in ritualistic
beatings for his modest keep,
whiting out his vision;
visions of God.
He says my name
to tidy his book
on good and evil.