rose lips

the old man on the corner is dead
he lived there for years,
broke, drunk, abused-
eyes like glass,
lips red as roses

he took the sidelong glances
as best he could
he wore the dirt with pride
and never reached out
for the money he was offered

he accepted the coins
that were dropped at his feet,
but never made the motion
with the palm of his hand

under it all,
he knew we all had the opportunity
to be just like him

he knew that the casualties
of greed could fall as easily
as any angel ever could

he died with a sip left in the bottle-
that taste he would leave for whoever
took his place once he was gone

the only advice he ever gave
was not to bother-
it all ends the same way
no matter who you are
or what position you hold,
the dirt will claim you
when the spark drifts away

"so much fuss,"
he said
"so much fuss over nothin',"
he chanted

now that he is gone,
there is an empty corner
down the street

and if you listen closely,
you can still hear him laugh
at the broken angels
falling behind him