JOHN ALLEN
CANS
melted snow crawls at a snail’s
pace down his threadless, stinking
brown work bootsunwittingly imitating his
brain waves. zigzagging through
the senseless rubber maze
of a sleeping heel and reaching
his own dead end on loose floorboards,
it adds a new continent
to the puddle made from tears and
other things that have formed like a
moist waste land over three years.
occasionally he is sure that the
shrill voiced neighbor downstairs
who complains loudly about the
noise is his daughter. who else,
after all, could care enough to
wake him up. never having the energy
to go and find out, he will forget.
this will not matter, since the man below is 85
and was put in a nursing home
last night. none of this may ever matter,
since downtown his dreams
are on sale for 50 cents a can.