With his pants jacked up
mismatched socks stare
his hair a greased nest
and dried shaving cream
crusted behind an ear
a cultural misfit king
He sits in his castle
of park benches solo
enthroned and alone
his workforce of pigeons
a winged aerial ballet
clamoring for a raise
Nails yellowed and cracked
hidden from his sepia sight
dark descends stage lights fade
all but forgotten now pressing
past haggard and reeking too
slips into his corrugated bed
good night
sleep tight
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