The Ghost of Center City

Hoarding seconds, minutes and hours.
Stacking them like poker chips,
higher and higher
to the leaking roof.
I'm a pack rat for these
junkyard memories,
I'm an avid collector
of half-empty glasses.
I always have been.

Poor in every sense of the word.

Gliding into the ice age.
On bare feet.
On fire.
Veins of concrete.
Wallet full of faded receipts.
This pocket stuffed with punched out teeth.
This long lost gutter treasure.
These aching arms,
dog-tired soul
and empty
pleading hands.

I can't give
what I don't
have.

But I'm here now.
For better or worse.
I'm all yours
on all fours.