He smoked his last of cigarettes
while huddled on a winter bench.
He shot the smoke out with his snot,
before the filter whisked away.
That night he suckled from the teat
of bottles filled with gin. He stretched
his cotton jacket fibers thin.
The morning came and sleepy drool
peeled back the skin around his mouth.
A baby bluejay pecked his teeth,
for it had fallen from the nest,
and had no mother to despair,
or search it out with kindly care.
The two were brethren, of a kind,
and like good brothers, when one died,
the other ripped his cheek flesh out,
and sucked the marrow from his bones.
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