Vagrant (Poetry)

Sleep is hard on a city bench someplace
while a waning moon stares blank
with no hope to give
of a good night’s rest or a pleasant dream.
Frost fingers through what the day has left
and crisps the sheets of crumpled newspaper
layered to keep a living body’s warmth.

A bottle rolled beneath the wooden seat
recalls the lonely nightcap — rotgut booze
to ease the ache of weatherbeaten limbs
creaky as the trees who will outlast him.

Cocooned in unread news he tries to rest
achieve at least a short unconscious state
nerves numbed to winter’s cruelty.
The looping reel of memories tuned low
to find a wavelength soothing — hushed
and no voice of blame or judgement punishing
as pain switched off — in stasis until morning comes...
                                if morning comes at all.

The moon’s an uncalled witness — sees it all
and never tells a soul his history —
the names he mutters maudlin share a death
with stars burnt out — they offer comfort-free illusion.
He talks to ghosts — held rigid in time’s hollow arms
they cradle him for mutual company
and wrap his shadow round where none may see
him taken — softly kidnapped
by the cold.