He lay there
right in the middle of the god-damn road.
Used some kind of greasy cloth for a blanket
and folded newspapers for a pillow.
Illuminated
by a line of headlights,
serenaded
by car horns,
and spoken to,
"Move you dirty bastard, outta the road,"
he lay there.
Finally
he raised his head,
turned stomach-side down,
extended his arms
and lifted himself up.
Then he bent down
picked up a bottle
raised it over his head,
then put it to his mouth
and emtied it in one long gulp,
then threw it down,
splat!
He gave us all the finger
and lay down again
head on newspapers, body under cloth,
behind a barrier of broken glass.
