Silas

Poetry

The name on his jacket says
Silas.
But that’s probably not his name.
And no one really stops to ask.

He reaches in his jacket
breast pocket
for an itch,
maybe a memory.
It returns empty.

He feels nothing in his Michelin Man jacket,
over-inflated and roughed.

At one point
he could have been
someone’s dad.
But that’s gone.
And whatever tears he cried
left trenches on his face.

His memories live on the curb
staring at unfamiliar hands.

Thinks to himself,
do they belong to me?

Nails hard and well-defined
with white lines
at every point of a curve.
Dirt lives deeply within the cuticle,
the old softness of brown skin
is now rough and browner.

He must be trying to preserve
the heat of the day
for the cold of the night
by sitting under the sky with
3-inch-deep cover.

It’s warm today.
But he’s cold now
clutching his High Life
and God Bless Me sign.

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