The pile of tickets on his bedspread will tell you on which buses he’s been,
which trains he took in the late-night passing hours for the half-price of a daytime ride,
watching the silhouettes of light bulbs trying to light his way like fiery beacons, but always
forgetting what the message was to be conveyed.
It is all hearsay and never seen,
like the parking tickets he never took to court, just paid offhand like another breakfast in another diner;
It is just another cup of coffee in a joint that lacks a lovely maiden to adequately fall in love with
who lacks an adequately softened heart to hit
and split open for the juicy fruit