He coughs up slugs
From a paper bag mouth,
Ruins daylight
With his flat cap,
Scratches obscenities
In the soil with a stick
And groans from his chest
At the dogs as they sniff.
He back-heels snails
Into bleak thorn bushes,
Ruins moonlight
With a smoking pipe,
Fills up benches
With a sprawling laze,
And flicks cigarette butts
At the birds.
By talking to him
And not looking in his eyes
I grew to like him slowly.