a winter evening: the
downandout stands by the
traffic island his hair matted into
dreadlocks an open beer can in the pocket of his
coat-which is thin for this

time of year – and hurls curses at a
motorbike courier as he waits for the
traffic to stop and let him go on his
way; his faded blue jeans are

flared at the bottom as the
hipsters used to wear them and
frayed threads hang over his
white sneakers like those that

Allen Ginsberg wore and
donated – full of his
sweat – to some
institution along with his

literary inventions; the sneakers are
white toes at ease pointing
straight ahead; Ginsberg died some
years ago he said he was

terrified at the prospect of
death but when the moment
came he was – as his last
journal entry tells us – e-

lated! elated; as the traffic swirls a-
round them and the lights
change to stop the incessant
flow the toes in the sneakers tap

gently ready for the off