His place

downstairs
between families
and green crates
like cascading people
we go down aimlessly
and dodge the carton lodges
cresting the edges
windowing pauper villas
I get to the bottom
except him
He was already sitting
at the table of the ground
and piss
staring at either of my pockets
glancing at my eyes
to see if shared his hopes
I walk too fast for his own good
his sign, in bad handwriting,
said something about money
I have money,
for the fare
and some that would stave his famine
I had exited his parlor though
and thought
it rude
to turn around
face those castles of concrete

I'll visit you again my brother
keeping my quarters this time