Face of the Bum

I'm tired of striving.
No more striving.
Not anymore.
There is too much to do
Like taking out the trash.

A gentle wind
is called for.

I want to sleep a thousand years,
to circle the ships in navy blue dreams -
survive this old journey creme de la creme.

Tell me, how can the bum
sleep snug on the street
with his toes to the curb
right there at Burger King.
The smell that drives him crazy.

With street cars
sooting his wincing meat,
how could anyone tuck him in?
Being a perpetual obstacle, a walking sin.
Does he know any tricks?
Like beginning again?

Stop! I wish to stop
watch the lines on that face
who
resembles my mother.
She was truly a beauty
just a few years before
turned into a shopping cart w***e.

I am almost over the urge
to reply,
just because somebody speaks.
It isn't worth it.
Not anymore.
When I walk outside I feel like my seams are showing,
then
When I check myself they all seem to be smooth,
and so I keep on going.

Four million beautiful children
are starving and rotting
just over the way and
I b***h over
Starbucks sprinkles in
the flavor of the day.

If I have a soul,
is this the standard issue?
I knew a pretty girl and all she did
was go bandaging up the world.
From where did I learn my greed?

Seldom are my dreams like silk.
Not anymore.
I keep recalling the face of the bum -
it's me.