Stunted bent man, like Quasimodo
Begs for a few rupees
And there’s something about him
The workmanship, the richness in expression
And the frugality of pain
I wish I was him, so little to contend with
And still content as a child
Sipping a glass of milk.
I’m my own shadow, the anorexic
Man inside who makes long miles
Searching for the fruits of his dreams.
Maybe I will be content one day with
A basket full of dreams.
And a heart as empty as a church
On a weekday morning.
Dreams are compulsive strains
Of infection that preserve life in you.
A virus that infects every cell from head to toe.
With no immunity to feud with.
What to do with an empty toothpaste tube?
Perhaps I will learn to conjure a smile
And still look photogenic
With my discolored teeth.