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Half blind bloodshot eyes
secluded in deep etched lines
slowly recognized their surroundings.
With stubble laying thick upon his chin,
the man shook and shivered.
Looked close to death I thought,
but written in the meaningless face
was the texture of survival.
The loose careless mouth
would again caress and suckle
cheap nectar from nameless bottles,
in the depths of lanes and doorways.
Then off he’d be for another week
of dark corners, nestling himself
between garbage cans, where only
a stray cat would befriend him.
On a Thursday, or maybe a Monday,
blurry eyed and half starved,
he’d emerge again, silently, out of the shadows.