somewhat poetic

kind older
homeless man with a
round weathered face
and he smiled and sat and played the flute
outside nearby my place of work

his flute skills what sub-par/
notes arbitrary, seemingly
played clumsily
awkwardly

but over the time that i would see him
playing, (sometimes in the rain)
i liked to think that he was improving
slowly

(and as much as i liked him
(and i did indeed like him)
never once did i pay him)

and one day he came in, complaining
of some rough and unsavoury
homeless most probably
types, unpleasant
most probably

who were threatening to come
and hurt him and move him on
and take his place. outside, nearby my
place of work

i see him around from time to time
elsewhere, fluteless

and a new man sits in the old spot
occasionally playing that old flute
funnily enough, very well

woke up throw down softly

i dream loads now but i still lie in
but for different reasons and kind of the same reason

i need to make breakfast now
and then go on a big walk with a friend

what will we talk about
i don’t want to be boring, i
want to be an asset to the big walk
i want to pull my weight this walk, i want to
pull out the big guns

maybe i can say things like “what
do you want to talk about next”

maybe i can keep telling them how hungry i am
except i won’t be that hungry because i need
to make breakfast now

an h(/fr)omage to how i used to sound

sounds like a
crises plural/ lice
surround me/ hounds like
dinner time gather round
the waterin hole on the dole
on the day and
on the day that morning she
did her business blending as she do

shallow fryin she misses the way
she used to see all kinds of food get
wrought and grated
moulded and broiled and
covered in sweaty pastries n
wrapped in thinly cut meats
nondescript slabs of meats
peppered and slapped and ground grimacing

the way she used to see him ooze it/the way
he embodied soft cheese conceptually
trudged around proudly he felt
adequate thanks to her
knowing gaze