In the corner,
a hobo mumbles under the alcohol
a renunciation of salvation.
And as the Chinese restaurant next door burns down,
he remembers a former love.
A burn in his stomach that went unrecognized.
The burn of love felt foreign to his liver.
For a promise without compensation could not be real.
But it was.
He knew his heart no longer belonged to him.
Pride, or rather it's brother envy,
would never allow the body of a drunkard a home in suburbia.
Or at least one better than the park bench
around the hole six near the fountain of Apollo.
Still she hung over him.
And he wished he only had the cash,
or the balls to steal it,
to whisk them away to Venice.
Though he'd never been,
a voice within screamed that she was the one to expose
on a terrace beneath the night sky.
And only Ra would see the best of him and her intertwine.
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