He sits on the park bench, his back curved against the frosty wind.
The roads on his face are shown clearly in the winter glare of light.

A red pool soaks the tops of his boots
that he got from the Salvation Army ten years ago.

He does not notice the seepage into the hole that keeps company with his frostbitten toe.

His hat that used to count quarters as
they landed from the hands of passersby, is kidnapped by the wind and thus rescued from the lice that infest his hair.

He is thinking about scoring
another bottle of wine.