he bowed back to collect newspapers and cardboard boxes
his work pants loose on his skinny body
when a car passes by, he quickly stands on the edge
with a small chart that is the only flesh and blood
standing in solitude
like a spider on a dirty cement wall
like an old stingray at the bottom of a cross section of water
standing hunched and close to a gray wall
when the car is over, he's like a roll of paper
slowly straightening his body
the wheel of the chart follows behind as the sheep of honey
if I think of the old-fashioned television that might light up in the room
when I think of a sink, a pot, and a frying pan
and he who will stand in front of it all
I choked
if I think of a lap hanging in dindning, which might have been blackmailed