today at dinner time
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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
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Poem by Janet Cannon
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Previously published in:
Wheelhouse Magazine
(E-zine, Chicago, IL)
and
Day Laborers
(Janet's chapbook published by Plan B Press)
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