Tuesday, December 1, 2015


sucking out
the rest of their lives
as they stood in line
at the Bowery Mission.
Their gums swollen & red
& receding into the back
of their skulls;
their teeth broken
looking like rusted serrated knives
of benign tastes
and neutered utility.
The drool
flowed from their black holes
and pooled on their chests.
They huddled and waited
for blood: sixty nine cents
worth of Port. Aged. Wise.
Indifferent to the crosses
hung for the holiday season.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

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