George lay there,
wrapping himself in shiny black VHS tape.
A cocoon of memories,
so loud they would deafen the blind
and fill in fingerprints with sparkling tar.
The brail in the elevator loses all meaning—
except for the sacred knowledge
concealed in the gasping for breath between stars.
George looks up through the gap
and prays for a wet gray fog to usher the urine
out from the alleyway he calls home.
He does not wash himself.
He does not eat.
He does not do many of the things
we finer folks seem to believe
make us esteemed.
But he does hold his language—
a wooden horse gift wrapped in blueprints.
And he does feel your eyes
like paper ornaments catching fire—
the same that spread up the drapes,
through the ceiling—
and across his family’s face.
He does feel your eyes burning—
in the knowledge
of how he came to the street.