the man in the blue shirt

Mid-day,

heat palpitating 
cicadas and a buzz
of green highways.

A city's heart always
remains despite
the best efforts
of elected officials

in the dirt.

A limp man
hair red as a
mirror unkissed;
the sticking liquor
a Colt 40. and some
other canned oblivion

The ladybugs creep
on his back, a sure sign
that mother nature shares
our feelings toward
this man.

and of course the cicadas sing
in passing tires and the sweaty
ring of cellphones passing by.

Though he is manifest, age,
burnt like Prometheus
from the sun, he is a child

who waits for a parent who will never
arrive.

He does not breathe,
he coughs in sputters
like gasoline gone wrong.

Don't touch him, that is what's
told when a voice rises,
don't touch him.

For God's sake, don't touch him.

And what did the ambulance say?

"He'd been here at least 7 hours."

and of course the cicadas sing
and the rings of the cellphones are
proposed to each new listener
who does not want to hear, or see.

For what is our cultural self but
a desertion of the child,
a betrayal of the other who
is ours--

"It ain't my fault",
his blearly companion
said without blinking an eye.

It was of course, and all of our faults.
Mine too.