They are everywhere,
\nthese itinerant wanderers,
\nbards of the road,
\nchickens roosting on fences,
\nwith their boxes before them,
\npennies and quarters.
\nAnd their eyes never meet yours,
\ncontempt or shame,
\nor remote viewing,
\nburned fragments of friends,
\nchildhood, confusion.
\nThey each have a station
\nalong the boardwalk,
\nby the blank walls waiting for offerings,
\nand my pocket lightens
\nuntil there are no more coins,
\nno more guilt.<\/p>\n
How can the world rise flaming in the east,
\nthe grand opera of the sun
\ncome like a charging stallion?
\nAnd the sky lift like a great portal,
\nto see them sit wretched as birds
\nby the parliament buildings and strollers?
\nThere is nothing for them
\nsitting in their dark imaginal dreams.
\nCould they be me,
\nor you?
\nThe folio of a life gone wrong?
\nI waver,
\nand my hands tremble,
\nthe beggar in me, afraid.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They are everywhere, these itinerant wanderers, bards of the road, chickens roosting on fences, with their boxes before them, pennies and quarters. And their eyes…<\/p>\n