Cityscape I

The town bum
marking time like a broken metronome
waited eagerly in the warm, cloudless afternoon.
His squiggly sperm-tailed whiskers
proffered looks of blithe indifference
as the sterile bus lurched forward to greet him.
Insignificant moments passed and he began to degenerate
into a pile of heroin-laced nonsense:
"cat, cat, cat...zanzibar is coming".
We all pretended not to notice;
to prefer the passing blur of restaurants and thirsty bushes.
"Stop requested" the bus chimed
and in a grove of equally perverse poets,
he was welcomed as their brother
with stories of last night's decadence.