He is propped up against a small wall
His legs splayed across the sidewalk
Like beached dolphins
Some drops of red wine
Stuck in his scraggly beard
Liquid rubies
One hand holding the paper bag
The bag holding the bottle
The other clamped possessively
Onto the remnants of a rucksack
Ostensibly containing what is left of
His worldly possessions
“Fuck this life”, he says
And takes another swig from the bottle
People passing step gingerly over
Or around his legs
Careful not to touch
Not looking not caring
Afraid to be contaminated with
The alcoholism virus
The homeless person disease
And be sucked themselves
Into the quicksand of
Hopelessness and despair
Afraid of losing their dignity
To second-hand clothes
Horrified to be reduced to
A bundle of rags inhabiting
The sidewalk and talking to
A nearly empty bottle.