The Man with a Carpet of Leaves

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.

3 Responses to “The Man with a Carpet of Leaves”

  1. What a guy eh?

  2. By talking to him
    And not looking in his eyes
    I grew to like him.

    I’d like this to end here – it mekes it punchier, I think? A good way to end…

  3. If you had looked in his eyes, I wonder…

    Great poem.

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