It’s 1998 and you're in New York.
You sit Buddha-style
Like a beggar’s cup
On a cold Brooklyn sidewalk.
The passersby stuff coins in you
Like a karma slot machine;
They measure their generosity
Against your God-bless-you's.
Raised, reared, reviled in Texas —
That’s where you'll return to;
Less welcome than a polished
Thief dry-drifting through
You are a blood-warm stain on the sidewalk;
Bitter as wormwood, pale as pigeon
Shit, dirty like a soiled rubber, pleading
Like an empty coffee