he sat,

stinking of beer,

his broken fingers arranged

on the table before him

like dessert



he'd pissed himself



the other Dunkin' denizens

wheezed and cackled into their

small coffees

and called him on it



finally the Assistant Manager

called the cops



2 cops came

and forcibly deposited him

on the sidewalk

next to the USA Today box,

threatening to take him

back



to the green cinderblock

room

and hose him down

and let him dry out

in the tank

behind bars



for 72 hours



if he didn't get lost

fast



pronto



one of the cops actually asked him

what the fuck was up

with his hands

but he said nothing

and was not

asked again



(he'd busted them all to shit

falling from a jagged rock face

way out in the Connecticut woods

yesterday afternoon)



5 years later he'd die

among his milk crates

on his portion

of riverbank

or else he wouldn't



like most people on the planet

his life was all

blown to hell

and he couldn't figure

why



he thought it must be his fault



really it wasn't