He stood on the corner
wearing a long baggy shirt,
going nowhere,
rag in hand,
dark eyes reflecting
passing cars
he’d never own.

He stood on the corner,
boy in a river
of flowing machinery,
an industry of noise
rude impatience,
passing cars
he’d never own.

He stood on the corner,
air thick with
this century’s
perfume of wealth
exhaled by
passing cars
he’d never own.

He stood on the corner
rag in hand, waiting;
passing cars;
mechanical mating calls,
golden trumpet horns
calling to him
from corner boy heaven.

He stood on the corner.
Passing cars,
petroleum appetites
satiated between pump stops,
disdainful of flesh,
indifferent metallic skins
polished by envious hands.

He stood on the corner.
Passing cars,
windshields washed
by corner boys
when lights turn red;
coins dispensed begrudgingly
through partially opened glass.

He stood on the corner
as lights turn green,
watched passing cars he’s never own.
He stood on the corner
wearing a long baggy shirt,
rag in hand,
going nowhere.

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