cans

melted snow crawls at a snails

pace down his threadless, stinking

brown work boots

unwittingly imitating his

brain waves. zigzagging through

the senseless rubber maze

of a sleeping heel and reaching

his own dead end on loose floorboards,

it adds a new continent

to the puddle made from tears and

other things that have formed like a

moist waste land over three years.

occasionally he is sure that the

shrill voiced neighbor downstairs

who complains loudly about the

noise is his daughter. who else,

after all, could care enough to

wake him up. never having the energy

to go and find out, he will forget.

this will not matter, since she is 85

and was put in a nursing home

last night. this will never matter,

since downtown his dreams

are on sale for 50 cents a can.