He Turns With Stars

He has a pavements for a mattress
And his pillow: his own crooked arm.
So tenderly it bears him on
To molten dreams of childhood

Some days he peels bruised fruit
Luxuriates in harbour sunsets
Reflecting New York's fingers
As they pick at libertarian sky

The satin fog's his nightgown
And skinny pyjamas monogrammed
With hardship/Winter friendship
This skin has room for two

He hums Giuseppe Verdi
And his music blooms in frost
At the rail works, there he spins
A single-malty waltz.

His stuffed shirt is
Up close and personal with
The personals; his Saviour
Falls between the agonies
And the racing results.

Lucky sufferings along the road
Of a life more free...
Smiles push up stubble
On his tired face

The blocks are his biographies
His roots the roads between.
A family tree of store-fronts
Leafy with greenbacks
Just out of reach.

The station bench his final rest
Departure late and unannounced.
Wrappers blow and sirens wail
Apt, but unaware of his passing

At last his shape conforms to general dust
The vagrant sky will bring him home
And he shall turn with common stars
He bunked with them for years.